


My Home is Your Body

by Molias



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Communication, Finger Sucking, Kendoll Connor, Longing, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Unauthorized uses of preconstruction software, manual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molias/pseuds/Molias
Summary: It seems reasonable enough, when Connor reflects on it. He finds Hank interesting, so of course he's going to look at him more often. It makes sense to stare at his hands.It's important, Connor knows, because emotions are confusing and complicated, to remind himself that it's fine, to think about these things.It's fine.Connor spends an awful lot of time looking at Hank. It takes him a while to figure out exactly why.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 50
Kudos: 316





	My Home is Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> I've said this on twitter but not here, so to be clear: David Cage is a piece of shit who appropriated the language and symbolism of civil rights movements for his hamfisted, shitty-ass game and explicitly denied that it was meant to be an allegory until recently when he decided he could try and profit off of BLM activism and the horrors of racist police violence. Fuck that guy, fuck this game, fuck actual cops.

Connor very quickly knows he likes Hank, that he wants to be around him and know him better, and that he definitely wants Hank to hug him again. As much as possible. He can't help but want to touch Hank, to be as close to him as possible. To be held by him. 

Understanding the sexual component of his feelings, though, takes longer. He understands the concept on a basic level, of course; his social protocols gave him enough context to flirt with Hank a little, when they first worked together, and he has a general understanding of human sexuality. But his own sexuality is harder to understand, or even to think about at all, beyond the most abstract conception of it.

He knows, at least, that he pays much closer attention to Hank's physical presence than he does to anyone else. Perhaps it's simply because they share the same living space, and so Connor has more opportunities to see Hank. To notice things about him. 

It seems reasonable enough, when Connor reflects on it. He finds Hank interesting, so of course he's going to look at him more often. It makes sense to stare at his hands. 

Hank's hands are larger than Connor's; he knows this intimately, of course, because he's done his best to record every moment of contact they've had with his body. Fewer than he'd like, but not at all uncommon; he's learned that when Hank's in a good mood, he enjoys casual touch. Each instance gives Connor another impression of the size and weight of Hank's hands, thick fingers squeezing his shoulder reassuringly or patting him on the back to signal a job well done at work. He thinks sometimes that if he could take Hank's hand in his own he could study them better. He's aware that this is reserved for people with a certain type of relationship with each other, and that he and Hank don't have such a relationship. Still, it's something he enjoys contemplating.

All of Hank is worth contemplating, when it comes down to it. Connor's fascinated with the wide range of human body types, especially in comparison with the limited range and similar build of android models, but Hank's so broad and solid and big that he can't help but find him particularly interesting.

Surely it's just this, Connor thinks. That's all it is: Hank is kind to him, and touches him sometimes, and he's bigger than Connor in a way that gives him an odd jolt of anxious excitement when Hank leans into his personal space to speak quietly in his ear. He's unique, and he's Connor's first & closest friend, and it only makes sense that Connor's thoughts would turn to him so often. 

It's reasonable, he decides, to think about when he wrapped his broad palm around the back of Connor's neck to pull him close for a hug that first cold, bright morning, after everything changed. Reasonable, too, to calculate how much space that hand would cover if he settled it low on Connor's back. If he pressed his palm over the subtle seam of his thirium pump regulator. How much smaller Connor's hand would look in comparison if he placed it over the center of Hank's chest.

It's important, Connor knows, because emotions are confusing and complicated, to remind himself that it's fine, to think about these things.

It's fine.

* * *

"Christ, I need to do laundry," Hank grumbles, late on a Friday after they get home from work. "I'm running out of shit to wear around the house." He's talking to himself, mostly, while he digs through the disorganized dresser in his bedroom, but of course Connor hears him.

He knows, too, that if he wasn't around Hank would probably wear the same sweatpants at home for a week or two at a time without a second thought, but that he's making an effort to be a little less careless, at least, with Connor there. Connor isn't sure how to tell him that he wouldn't mind at all. "Don't put on clean clothes on my account" is something he could say, of course, but he's sure Hank wouldn't take him seriously.

Hank emerges from the bedroom, overstuffed laundry hamper in tow, and as he rounds the corner and opens the door to the garage, where the washer's tucked into a corner, Connor gets a glimpse of unfamiliar clothing beneath his warm flannel robe. Not enough to see what he's wearing exactly, but he knows it isn't something he's seen before. He isn't sure why it matters so much to him, to take note of all of Hank's clothing, but he's still developing his own tastes when it comes to what he wears, so it stands to reason he'd be particularly observant in this regard.

"Don't let me forget to throw that shit in the dryer, will you?" Hank asks, once the washer's set. "It'll be worse if I wake up tomorrow to a pile of wet shit because I forgot about it."

"Of course," Connor says, setting a timer for the average wash cycle time of the aging washing machine. "I'll make sure to—"

His sentence trails off, the thought fizzling to nothing in his mind, because once Hank grabs the bag of takeout he'd picked up on the way home and settles himself on the couch, his robe falls open and Connor sees what he's wearing beneath it.

"You all right, Connor?" Hank asks curiously, and Connor blinks and smiles and forces himself to nod. "Sit down, then, you'll make me anxious looming over me like that." He pats the couch cushion beside him, and Connor sits. He still needs an invitation, sometimes. 

It's a comfortable silence that falls between them, after that, while Hank slurps down his pad kee mao and turns on the tv, more for background noise than anything else. What's important, Connor decides, is that Hank's focused just closely enough on the television that he can safely focus on Hank.

Connor's noticed that much of Hank's wardrobe is too large for him; whether that's a preference for baggier clothes, a lack of knowledge or concern about proper fit, or a sign that he's lost weight since he purchased most of his clothing is unclear, although Connor suspects there's truth to all of it. Hank may not eat "well," for some definitions of the word, but he often doesn't eat enough, either; only in recent months, as his mood's slowly improved and his drinking has decreased, has he been better about taking regular meals. Connor predicts, with no small amount of pleasure, that his shirts will fit better in the near future.

Tonight, though, Hank's wearing something that must have been purchased long ago. In contrast to the loose t-shirts and flannel pants Hank's worn at home as long as Connor's been staying with him, the gray undershirt and sweatpants Hank had unearthed from some long-untouched corner of his dresser are surprisingly...clingy, Connor decides. That's the best word to describe the effect, although his mind supplies alternatives: intriguing. Enticing. 

The undershirt is stretched tightly across Hank's torso; he's able to see the faint outline of his nipples through the fabric, and after a minute's observation has to remind himself to look elsewhere. He's doing this out of curiosity, not...not some strange interest in Hank's nipples, specifically. He knows that nipples can be sensitive, during sexual intimacy, although he isn't sure why this would be the case for men who couldn't become pregnant or give birth. He idly wonders if Hank is one of the people who has that particular sensitivity.

Does one have to be aroused, first, for a sexual touch to bring pleasure? Or does the act of touching create pleasure and arousal that follows?

How does one even recognize the feeling of arousal at all? How does desire differ from his idle thoughts of touching Hank, of wanting Hank to want to touch him?

Connor's had more thoughts like this, lately, but he suspects these questions do not fit into the category of personal questions Hank will, despite his protests, be happy to answer.

It's just curiosity. He understands so much more about emotional thoughts and responses now than he did just a few months ago, but this area, one in which he has no experience or personal reference to draw from, remains confusing. It's more abstract than the more concrete emotional experiences in the rest of his life.

Hank yawns and stretches his arms above his head, giving a satisfied grunt when there's a series of slightly alarming cracks from his neck and shoulders. Connor admires the stretch and flex of his arms, but his attention is quickly diverted to the bare skin that's revealed when the movement of Hank's arms pulls the shirt up several inches.

It's only a second, of course, before Hank self-consciously pulls his shirt back down (and Connor is glad, then, that he's able to watch Hank without it being obvious, because he'd hate to make him uncomfortable), but it's long enough—although Connor wants to look for much longer, of course—for Connor to capture an image he can return to whenever he wishes.

The hair below Hank's navel is thick, and mostly gray, although there are darker hairs scattered throughout. He imagines the contrasts he'd feel under his hand: the slight coarseness of the hair, the plush softness of the layer of fat on Hank's abdomen and the firm muscle beneath. His manual sensors were calibrated to take in data from crime scenes, from evidence that was too dangerous or too menial or too complicated for humans to bother with; they weren't meant to derive pleasure from touching another living person. But now, he's allowed to decide what he wants to do with his own hands. 

His fingers twitch with the desire to touch.

The motion of Hank pulling his shirt back into place drags his eyes farther down. It's only natural, to follow the motion of Hank's hand as it grasps the hem of his shirt and then settles on his thigh. It makes sense for Connor's gaze to linger there, and of course if he's already looking, well. It would be hard to miss the thick outline of Hank's penis through the soft fabric of the sweatpants, worn thin with time. Connor's certain Hank isn't wearing underwear, based on the lack of a hemline visible on his thigh through the sweatpants, or the smoothing effect another layer of cloth would have over his groin.

There's only a thin layer of cloth protecting Hank's privacy. Connor knows he should look away, that at any moment Hank might notice the line of his sight glued to his lap, but he's so curious. Somehow more, with this, than with anything else. He isn't sure why.

Analysis fluid floods Connor's mouth, suddenly, as if he's noticed something intriguing he needs to sample. He considers the process of taking one and slumps back into the couch, forcing himself to look away. "Oh," he says, louder than he intended, and Hank peers over at him, puzzled.

"You all right there, Connor?"

He doesn't seem to have noticed Connor's area of focus, just a moment ago.

Connor swallows the excess fluid, scrambles for a response, and notices the small red timer flashing in the corner of his vision.

-0.13

-0.14

-0.15

"The timer went off," he says. "For the washer. I was distracted, and didn't expect it." He starts to stand, but Hank's hand clamps onto his shoulder and presses him back into the couch.

"I got it," he says. "Don't you try to do my laundry for me, remember?" He pats Connor's shoulder once, twice, then squeezes as he hauls himself up off the couch. Connor feels the warmth of his hand dissipate into his chassis as he walks away.

He imagines, irrationally, Hank stopping as he passes Connor and sliding a finger into his mouth. Pressing gently against the most sensitive area of his tongue.

His mouth floods again. Connor doesn't need to breathe, of course, but he feels short of breath all the same, and his entire body hums with anxious anticipation. He hears the creak of the dryer door opening and quickly shoves a finger in his mouth, focusing on keeping his hearing trained on the door to the garage while he initiates his preconstruction software. Hank's outline appears in front of him, the frame of his hand overlapping with Connor's as he tentatively licks his own finger.

It doesn't feel right, he decides. He adds another finger; that isn't right, either, but Hank's fingers are thicker than his own, so this seems like it'll approximate the effect more closely. He presses down on his tongue, on the nearly invisible patches of sensory fibers that run down its center, and tries to picture the cascade of feedback he'd get from analyzing traces of sweat on Hank's skin. From tasting his fingerprint.

He huffs out a small, displeased sound; his preconstruction can show Hank's physical location, his wide stance and looming stature in front of him, it can suggest how he might slowly slide his finger into Connor's mouth, but it can't tell him what he'd taste like. He doesn't have enough data to imagine the sounds Hank would make, if he—

If he what?

Connor feels as if there's a wall around the conclusion he's reaching for. Not the red wall of warnings and restrictions preventing his deviancy, but a barrier around something he can almost see the shape of. "Right on the tip of my tongue," he's heard Hank say, when he can't recollect knowledge he's sure he has somewhere within his mind.

He almost has it.

The buzzing anticipation that's been building in Connor's chest makes him restless and unsettled, and he's so focused on unraveling what it is that he wants that he nearly misses Hank's heavy footsteps as he enters from the garage. He yanks his fingers from his mouth and frantically wipes them dry on his pants, hoping Hank won't notice. "Well, it might not all be dry by the time I go to bed," Hank says, with no preamble, as he settles back onto the couch, "but I set it to run long enough that it'll be done eventually. I'll mess with it in the morning."

"Your clothes will be wrinkled if they're in the dryer overnight," Connor protests, but Hank just snorts and shakes his head.

"Do I look like someone who has ever given a shit if his clothes were wrinkled? Besides, none of it's what I wear to work. Just for around the house, so I'm not parading around in this more than I have to."

Hank slaps his thigh for emphasis, drawing Connor's attention back to how closely his thin sweatpants cling to his legs and groin. If Hank's referencing how he looks in his current clothes, surely he won't mind Connor taking another look; he turns and soaks in the sight of him. "I don't see why you shouldn't parade around in that," Connor says. "I'd prefer it," he doesn't say, but he thinks it. He commits the sight of Hank flushed and lounging on the couch, robe carelessly spread open to reveal the generous lines of his body hugged tightly by thin, worn-in cotton, to the most protected section of his memory.

He disables the automatic response that triggers the release of analysis fluid into his mouth when it activates yet again, and flags the error for repair during his next deep stasis period.

"Yeah, well," Hank grumbles, fumbling with the tie of his robe as if he's considering pulling it shut and hiding himself from view, but then he shrugs and settles back into the couch. "You'll forgive me if I don't think that's the generally accepted opinion when it comes to wearing clothes that barely fit."

"There's no one else here to give their opinion on your clothing except Sumo," Connor says, "and he never seems to have any criticism to share." He looks over to where Sumo's sprawled out on his bed in the corner, tail thumping slowly at the sound of his name. "See, he approves, don't you, boy?"

Sumo trots over to the couch and rests his head on Connor's knee while he accepts some scratches behind his ears. Hank leans forward to thump him affectionately at the base of his tail, and says, "Guess I should take him out before I forget."

"I'll take care of it," Connor says, standing up before Hank can. He needs a moment away from the visual distraction of his body, however much he might appreciate the view. Hank makes a token protest, but Connor can tell he's happy to let him take charge of Sumo's late night bathroom break. Usually Sumo just gets let out in the yard for a few minutes before Hank turns in for the night; a longer walk comes earlier in the day. Tonight, though, Connor decides on a brisk walk around the block to give himself more time to think, which he sometimes finds he does better while in motion. Too often, standing still just makes him tense and fidgety when he's trying to work something out, no matter how quickly he rolls his coin over his knuckles.

It's cold outside, a clear night after several days of clouds and light snow. There's a dusting of it still on the grass, and Sumo happily snuffles in it as they make their way down the street. Connor can't stop thinking about Hank.

It's not unusual, he supposes, for him to focus his thoughts on Hank, or focus his attention on him when they're sharing the same space. He was his first friend, the first person who showed him any kind of genuine affection.

The first person to touch him with kindness.

(There had been unkind touch, angry touch, from him before that, and while Connor understands why this came first, why Hank reacted the way he did when they were first paired together, for all the warmth he feels towards Hank there's a little pain there, too, folded up small and sometimes nearly forgotten. He wishes he could forget it altogether.)

Thinking about Hank fondly, wanting to be near him and deepen their friendship and find ways to coax a genuine smile from him—a rare occurrence, but becoming less so as time progresses—are all things he knows and understands. Hank's an important person in his life. Possibly, still, the most important person.

He's used to noticing Hank's body, and thinking about how different it is from his own. How much larger it is, more marked by the passage of time in fascinating ways his body will never experience. Hank is beautiful, Connor thinks, and he's glad to know that fact.

He recalls the image of Hank on the couch from a moment ago and shivers. What would it feel like, Connor wonders, to straddle Hank's broad thighs and sit in his lap, pressed against his chest? If Hank then wrapped his arms around him and held him close? Hank's hugged him before, but to be held would be, Connor is certain, another experience entirely. He pictures pressing his face into Hank's neck and inhaling deeply, analyzing the scent clinging to his skin and hair. Maybe—

Maybe he'd touch his mouth to Hank's neck as well. Just a taste. Just enough to sample a trace of his sweat. Hank's hands would tighten on his waist, and he'd moan in response. Perhaps he'd offer his fingers, the way Connor'd imagined before.

It isn't until Sumo whines and tugs at the leash that Connor realizes he's been standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk for at least five minutes while contemplating this scenario. Connor shakes his head as if to dislodge the thought from his mind. 

Now isn't the time, he thinks. Perhaps later, once Hank's gone to bed, he can indulge in this line of thought for a short while before he enters stasis. He's still not sure where these thoughts are leading him; the inevitable end of this series of images trails off into vague static, a shapeless suggestion of something more that he longs for without quite knowing what it is that he wants.

He sighs and clicks his tongue at Sumo, urging him homeward.

The overhead light in the living room is off, but the room is still dimly lit by the kitchen lighting and the glow of the television. Hank stirs on the couch at the sound of Sumo's nails clicking on the entryway floor. His eyes are soft as he smiles at Connor.

"Hey," he mumbles sleepily. "Nice walk?"

Connor shrugs. "Nothing particularly exciting, I'm afraid, but Sumo was glad to get out." He stares at Hank's comfortable sprawl, with his legs parted and one arm slung over the back of the couch. One cheek still has the impression of where he'd been resting it on his arm a moment ago. He idly scratches his chest and Connor can't help but follow the motion of his hands with his eyes and wish his hand was there instead. "You look tired," he says, to keep himself from saying something else. "Are you going to bed soon?"

"Nah," says Hank. "I'm fine." He pats the couch cushion beside him. "Come on, sit with me. I'm gonna watch this for a little while longer."

Hank gets like this sometimes, clearly tired enough to sleep but resistant to the idea of going to bed for reasons Connor can't quite understand. Falling asleep upright in front of a bright television isn't part of proper sleep hygiene, Connor knows, but he also knows how futile it would be to inform Hank of this. In addition, while he often wishes Hank would adopt healthier habits, he learned very quickly, in their time together, that suggesting this sort of change in habits himself was rarely appreciated.

He wants to spend time with Hank, to be near him (especially in these moments where he's a little tired and soft, some of the roughness that's usually present worn down by the late hour and the comfort of a quiet evening) and, especially lately, to contemplate being nearer. To be closer than he is now: settled stiffly next to him, as close as he dares, never once losing his awareness of how close Hank's hand, still draped along the back of the couch, is to touching his shoulder.

* * *

Hank starts snoring, as Connor expected he would, during the third episode of Carpentry Wars: Detroit Edition. Connor's usual tactic, when this happens, is to make just enough noise to rouse Hank while passing it off as an accident, but on this occasion he finds himself reluctant to get up and go in search of something he can do to disturb Hank just enough to wake him up so he'll go to bed. He could, instead, enjoy this quiet moment next to him. He could take his time admiring Hank.

The light is dim, but Connor doesn't need much light to see Hank clearly, and the soft glow of the television is kind to Hank's rugged features. Connor would find Hank handsome in any light, of course, but he does appreciate the sight of him half-shadowed. His face is slightly slack in sleep, some of the worry smoothed away in a state of relaxation he never seems to find when he's awake.

His clothing—well. It's as tight as it was earlier, and somehow even more enticing when Connor can look at his leisure, without worrying about being too obvious in his admiration. He feels some small measure of guilt, for scrutinizing Hank's body in a way he isn't sure he'd appreciate or approve of, but he can't help the way he's drawn to him like this. He pushes the guilt down and makes a note to return to it later, if he feels the need. For now, he'll let himself indulge, just a little.

Connor's contemplating the fullness of Hank's lower lip when Hank's hand lands heavily on the back of his neck, and for a moment he's sure Hank's awake and angry with him for watching him while he slept, but when he glances up, Hank's eyes are still closed; a moment later, the hand slides off and settles on Hank's thigh.

It settles, but doesn't still; Connor watches with his lips parted as Hank's hand rubs along the length of his thigh before his arm goes boneless and slack. It slowly slips down Hank's inner thigh, and Hank gives a soft, satisfied grunt as it nudges against—

"Oh," Connor says, for the second time that night, although he's quieter this time, quiet enough not to disturb Hank's rest.

He's aware, of course, of the phenomenon of nocturnal penile tumescence. He knows that it's common throughout middle age and into one's senior years, that it shouldn't be surprising at all to know it's something Hank still experiences.

He knows all this. But knowing about it and experiencing it—seeing it firsthand, and very close—are two entirely different things.

He leans in to get a better look. Connor had seen the outline of Hank's penis through his pants, earlier; it was hard to miss, given the drape of the material and the lack of another layer beneath. But this isn't a suggestion of a shape framed in folds of fabric, an obscured outline he can fill in based on his understanding of anatomy. This is—

Connor reflexively swallows, even though he's disabled the process that releases analytical fluid when he gets the urge to take a sample. He imagines a flood filling his mouth, desire pressing against the backs of his teeth.

This is obscene, he thinks. Nothing is hidden. The flimsy sweatpants hug the length of Hank's erection so closely, as it strains beautifully against the soft fabric, that it almost looks as if it's on display for Connor's pleasure. 

It's not, of course. Nothing about this is for him. Hank hasn't given him permission to stare so blatantly.

Even so, Connor thinks. Even so, he can't help himself. He can't look away.

Connor focuses first on observing and recording the exact dimensions of Hank's penis when fully erect. He's never appreciated how his advanced analytical software allows him to calculate the dimensions of objects based solely on visual data as fully as he does now. He's so intent on tucking that information away for later that he barely thinks about why he's doing it, but. It seems important.

Most important, for the moment, is observing Hank. Committing every detail to memory. He disables his automatic blinking function, which is mostly there to avoid causing discomfort to humans; if he remembers to blink every few minutes he'll be able to keep his eyes sufficiently lubricated. He doesn't want to stop looking for even the tenth of a second it would take to blink if it isn't absolutely necessary.

Hank's hand still rests limply against the base of his penis. He'd made a small sound of pleasure when it rested there, and now, just a moment later, he shifts his hips just enough to rub himself against his hand, as if it's something external he can't control and not part of his body.

"Yeah," Hank slurs, voice so thick the word's barely comprehensible. "Can you?" He rolls his hips lazily, sliding his hand along the length of his erection.

He's still asleep. Connor understands, finally, what it is that he wants. Why Hank's body holds such a fascination for him. Why he can't stop looking at him, and why even now he's leaning forward, mouth dropping open reflexively.

He doesn't know who Hank's addressing in his dream, or what scenario he's created. He has no idea where Hank's desires lie. What he does know, with a certainty that leaves him almost dizzy as everything in his understanding of the world shifts just a bit to adjust, is that he wants to makes Hank sigh and moan like this. To be the one Hank asks when he wants to feel pleasure. Connor wants desperately to give it to him, wants it to be his hand Hank rolls his hips into. Or his—

He can barely form the thought in full, but he raises his hand to his mouth again. This time he pushes three fingers in, then his thumb as well, to fill his mouth completely. He keeps his eyes trained on Hank's lap, watching every sleepy twitch of his erection as he tentatively sucks on his fingers. He's sure it's nothing like what it would feel like to take Hank's—

to take him inside—

Hank rumbles out another moan, so low and soft it's barely more than a hum of satisfaction, and Connor captures it, creates a loop he plays back while he watches. He keeps it quiet enough that it won't drown out anything else Hank says, but now his hand and hips are still, as if the dream's faded into something else.

He's still hard, though.

Connor forces himself to blink, for the first time in several minutes, and as he momentarily pays attention to his own body instead of the one beside him, he realizes he's shaking. The restless tension from before curls deep and thick in his chest. Connor pulls his fingers from his mouth and clasps his hands together in his lap in an attempt to keep them still. 

There are several things he could do, he thinks, instead of continuing to stare at Hank while he sleeps. He could cough politely, or touch Hank gently on the shoulder (if he can trust himself to touch Hank at all, at the moment) to wake him and suggest he retire to bed. He could grab one of the old, worn quilts from the hall closet and drape it over Hank before retreating elsewhere to give him some privacy. He could even remove himself from the situation entirely and take another walk to collect himself and let this flood of desire subside.

Any of these things would be a better choice, he knows, a more respectful one, than remaining close to Hank and watching while he has what Connor can only assume was a sexual dream. Than scanning his body in more intimate detail than Hank would allow, if he were awake. Than initializing his preconstruction program, which he knows is inevitable from the minute the idea comes to him, even though he probably shouldn't.

None of it's real, he tells himself. Surely he can be forgiven for indulging himself this way, when the sheer force of his want is enough to keep his thoughts racing, keep the slight tremor in his hands. It's as if he's shaking from the effort it takes not to reach out and touch Hank the way he wants to.

He closes his eyes and tries to take deep, steady breaths; even without a need for oxygen the process is a calming one, and it triggers his other systems to assess their performance and make adjustments as needed.

His thirium pump slows to a more reasonable rate; he'd barely noticed it speed up in the midst of everything else, but he feels slightly more in control with it closer to its proper tempo. The tremor in his hands eases slightly.

Hank won't know, he thinks. I just—I need to see. He initializes the preconstruction software. He uses it all the time, of course; mostly for work, but occasionally in his personal life, when he wants to investigate possible outcomes of an action or decision. It's a helpful way to approach new or confusing situations, but the process itself is simple.

He's never used it for something like this, though. Never when it's impossible to focus on one path because the desire for all of them has bloomed so suddenly inside him.

The living room explodes with the outlines of potential futures, each one layered over the next in a tangle of shapes and motion. Connor's glad he's an advanced model, able to interpret and examine multiple streams of data at once; it means he isn't immediately so overstimulated by the array of projections before him that he shuts down entirely.

It's a close call, though.

He's inundated with possibilities and can barely do more than sit frozen on the sofa, hands gripping his thighs, as he observes them:

_Connor is draped over Hank's lap, one hand on his chest and one kneading his side, as Hank kisses him deeply and tenderly. His hand brushes the back of Connor's neck, making him shiver and groan into Hank's open mouth._

_He's kneeling between Hank's spread knees, nuzzling his cheek against Hank's erection through the soft, worn cloth of his sweatpants, pressing his mouth to the faint dampness that's growing where the head of his penis is straining against the fabric._

_Hank's hand is in his hair, not pulling but guiding him gently as he pulls Hank's pants down and takes him fully into his mouth. He slides his palm up and down Hank's thigh, admiring its thickness under his hand as much as he loves the thickness filling his mouth._

_He's rolling Hank's nipples between his fingers, watching for his reaction and bracing a hand on Hank's soft belly when he leans down to give them a lick._

_He's pinned beneath Hank's bulk, head thrown back as Hank trails hot, wet kisses down his neck and across his shoulders. Hank's thigh presses between his legs and despite the lack of genital attachments he can't help but rock his hips against the warm, solid weight of him._

_Hank's hands are—they're curled gently, possessively, around the back of his neck, they're stroking the soft underside of his arm, they're pulling his hair as Hank thrusts up into his mouth, they're holding Connor still so Hank can kiss him again and again, they're in his mouth, two fingers pressing down on his tongue as his other hand cups his jaw and turns his head so Hank can see the blissful arousal on his face just from the pleasure of tasting him, they're cupping the smooth expanse of his pubic mound and rubbing and rubbing until somehow—Connor doesn't understand how or even if it's possible, but somehow—he feels it more and more, a building tension, a heat, an inevitable burst, and—_

"Hey, Connor. Hey. You all right?" Hank's voice, his real voice, cuts through the ocean of abstract images and Connor blinks & refocuses on what's in front of him: a suddenly-very-awake Hank, looking at him with concern.

Connor forces himself to keep his eyes on Hank's face, as tempting as it is to let his gaze drift down to his lap, but he notices when Hank stiffens for a minute and pulls his robe closed, tying the sash messily.

"You're red," Hank says, tapping Connor's LED gently. "And you were all, uh. It looked like you were hyperventilating, or something. What's up?" His voice is rough with sleep and his eyes are heavy, but he's alert enough that Connor knows he can't wave him off entirely.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," he says. "An unexpected software issue took me by surprise." It's mostly true. 

"I'm not disturbed," Hank grumbles. "Just haven't seen you get like that before. You were shaking." The hand that had touched his LED now rests on his shoulder and Connor's proud of himself for not moaning and leaning into the touch. He can still feel the echoes of every Hank his software had conjured up, each one full of desire to match his own.

"Was I?" he asks, even though he knows he was. He's surprised he isn't shaking still. The buzzing energy of his arousal hasn't faded at all.

Hank nods. "Woke me up, which is probably for the best as far as my neck is concerned, but I haven't seen that happen before. I thought maybe something was wrong."

"I haven't experienced it before," Connor says, staring at his hands in his lap. It doesn't feel right to go into more detail. He has no idea what, if any, of what he's come to understand about his feelings he should share with Hank.

"But you're all right?" Hank squeezes Connor's shoulder until he raises his head again. There's genuine concern in his eyes, a softness Connor rarely sees outside of quiet moments at home, and he memorizes the curve of Hank's lip and the creases of the crow's feet by his eyes so he can recall his expression later on.

He's so taken with the way Hank looks at him that he nearly forgets to answer the question. He just stares into his eyes, pale gray in the dim light of the television, and thinks about how much he wants to kiss him.

"I am," he says. "I'm all right."

"You'd tell me, if you weren't?"

Connor nods. "Of course," he says, but Hank seems unconvinced. He doesn't know what else to say.

They sit in silence for a moment. The television's finally changed over from home renovation shows to something called "extreme xeriscaping." Connor turns it off; now he and Hank are only lit by the light above the kitchen sink. Hank's hand is still a warm, reassuring weight on his shoulder.

Connor reaches up and brushes his thumb over Hank's knuckles. "There's nothing wrong," he says. "Truly. I surprised myself with the results of some processes I was running, that's all." He tries not to think about how broad Hank's hand feels under his, or how he could turn his head just a few degrees to the right and take Hank's fingers into his mouth. He fails miserably, of course, but he does make the effort.

"Sure," Hank says, and if he still doubts Connor's story, his face doesn't show it. He squeezes his shoulder, and Connor realizes he's taken Hank's hand hostage. Hank doesn't try to pull it away, though. 

"Have you..." Connor starts, but he falters when Hank leans in closer to listen. It's hard to focus when he's so close, and he wonders how he's ever managed it. Maybe he's just been better at fooling himself, up until now. "Have you ever come to an understanding about yourself that took a while for you to process?" It's not quite what he wants to ask, but while he doesn't know if the right moment to ask "is it all right if I want to have sex with you?" will ever come, he's certain it hasn't come yet.

"Yeah," Hank replies with a sarcastic laugh, "I think I got that covered. No one's going to accuse me of processing anything very quickly." He nods towards Connor's LED, which is glowing a steady yellow. "You're overthinking things right now, aren't you? It's too fucking late for it." He slides his hand across Connor's shoulder and pats the back of his neck before resting his hand at the top of his spine. Connor feels his skin retract under his shirt in the shape of Hank's palm.

"I'd say sleep on it, usually," Hank says, "but I guess that won't work for you. Still, whatever it is will probably be easier to deal with in the morning." He looks like he's going to continue, but whatever he says is interrupted by an enormous yawn.

"Jesus," Hank mumbles. "Think I need to turn in myself." He gives Connor's back a final pat and hauls himself off the couch, grumbling a bit as he rolls his shoulders and tilts his neck back and forth, clearly sore even if he doesn't say anything about it. "You'll be all right?" he asks, one more time, and Connor can help the fond smile gives him.

"I'll be fine, Hank," he says, forcing himself to sound more exasperated than he feels. Something pulls at Connor's thoughts and makes him call out to Hank as he turns to retreat to the bedroom. "Can I ask a question?"

Hank doesn't respond, but he turns around and faces Connor again, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robe.

"I'm not asking to criticize, but I'm curious: why do you fall asleep out here so often, when you know it causes you pain? You could have gone to bed earlier, when I came back from walking Sumo. I suspect you'd fallen asleep already, and that you were only awake because we made enough noise upon entering to wake you up."

Hank sighs, and the slump of his shoulders when he exhales makes Connor wonder if this was a question he should have stayed away from. He's still wearing that same soft smile from earlier, though, so Connor holds out hope that he hasn't hit anything too painful. "It's too quiet in there, sometimes," Hank says, angling his head towards the bedroom. "Too empty. Being out here with—being out here's a little more comfortable. I know it fucks with my back but it's a little easier to deal with up here." He taps his forehead. "I guess it's hard to talk about insomnia when you don't even sleep but it fuckin' sucks."

"I know what it is," Connor protests, although he knows it can't mean much. "I know I can't understand it fully, but I know it's difficult."

"That's one word for it," Hank says. "Alone with your thoughts at 2 am is the worst place in the world to be." He shrugs. "I'm sure it makes it harder to sleep when I do get to bed, but it feels good to let it come easy sometimes. I know it probably drives you crazy, but I don't see myself stopping any time soon."

"I think I understand," Connor says. "I hope it wasn't too intrusive to ask."

"Nah, you're good," Hank says, waving his concern away. "But now I really am going to try to get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning." He gives a small, awkward wave, and shuffles into the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

The other questions Connor wants to ask lay heavy in his mind. What were you dreaming about? Would you ever talk to me like that?

What would you have done if I had touched you?

He waits until he hears the bedroom door click shut and he knows he's alone. Connor slips off of the couch and makes his way into the kitchen; he feels like he needs to do something with his hands, keep his body moving so he's diverting at least some tiny fraction of his processing power away from what just happened. Away from Hank. He doesn't always carry his coin with him these days, but now he longs for it, a mindless physical repetition to smooth over the jagged edges of his thoughts.

He rinses and refills Sumo's water bowl, opens the dishwasher, and spends thirty seconds staring at the rack of clean plates before he closes it again. He re-stacks the silverware in its drawer, settling the bowls of the spoons neatly inside each other. He considers checking on Hank's laundry, starting the dryer if it hadn't run long enough or folding his shirts so they won't get wrinkled, but Hank's reminder from earlier echoes in his mind: "Don't you try to do my laundry for me." Even so, he's halfway down the hall to the door to the garage before he can convince himself to stop.

He returns to the kitchen long enough to turn off the light, leaving the house in darkness, then returns to the sofa. He taps his hands nervously on his thighs.

Just before Hank woke up, he'd envisioned Hank touching him, his huge rough hand massaging between his legs. He can't stop thinking about it—the ghost of the image still hangs in his awareness as if his preconstruction software was still running.

He hasn't tried to touch himself like that before. He isn't equipped for it, after all, and until those few minutes ago, when he finally came to the now-obvious conclusion all his thoughts and feelings about Hank were pointing him to, it hadn't seemed like something he would ever need to explore for himself. He hadn't been curious about his own body, somehow.

Just about Hank's.

He feels a hot rush of shame and embarrassment at the fact that he couldn't see the obvious meaning of his own feelings until he was confronted with Hank in a state of sexual arousal.

The guilt he'd pushed aside earlier seeps back into his consciousness, warring with the still-heavy feeling of arousal that's wound its way through every wire and circuit in Connor's body. It feels intrusive to think of Hank this way, to map out the shape of his erect penis so he can consider it later—although even as he thinks this he's creating a three-dimensional model in a background process and comparing it to the dimensions of his jaw—and watch him in a private, vulnerable moment of sleep while conjuring up an array of sexual fantasies.

Surely it's inappropriate to subject someone to his sexual thoughts without permission, although the process of gaining that permission seems just as inappropriate.

Connor closes his eyes. He can't take back anything he's done tonight, and despite the guilt and confusion he isn't sure he would do otherwise, if given the choice. How could he not admire Hank when he was there beside him?

The place on his back where Hank had touched him, where his skin had drawn away from the point of contact in an attempt to experience his touch as intimately as possible, is still bare white chassis in the shape of Hank's hand, a large curve crowned with five bright points. He wishes his shirt hadn't been between Hank's body and his own.

He imagines their naked bodies pressed together, an unbroken line of contact. Slowly, carefully, Connor unbuttons his fly and eases his hand under the waistband of his briefs. He pauses before the entirety of his hand slips inside his underwear to listen intently for any sounds of movement, but the house is still, and he knows Hank wouldn't even be able to see him in the dark. If he came out of the bedroom now, Connor could hide any evidence of...of whatever he's doing, before he could turn any lights on.

Despite this fact, a new thought, one that hadn't shown up in his earlier preconstruction, enters his mind: Hank standing in the doorway, eyes wide and intent as he spots Connor reaching inside his underwear.

"Does it feel good?" Hank would ask. (Would he? Connor wonders. Or would he apologize and leave the room? Tell Connor to keep his hand out of his pants, for fuck's sake, and storm off? Or just watch, silently? He isn't certain. For now, though, he wants Hank to ask, and this moment is only about what he wants.)

Connor wants to be able to say yes. He wants to be able to moan and sigh with pleasure, to show Hank he knows how to make himself feel good but that he'd feel better, surely, if Hank would just nudge Connor's hand aside and replace it with his.

He can't show Hank what he likes if he doesn't know in the first place, though. It makes him hesitate, fingertips just grazing the top of his pubic mound. So far it doesn't feel any different from touching his own face, his arm, his shoulder. He doesn't know if he was made to have the kind of pleasure he wants.

He's afraid to explore further, in case he doesn't like the answer he finds.

But he thinks of the imagined Hank in the doorway, a Hank who maybe feels the same desires he does, who's drawn to him the same way he feels drawn to Hank: a constant, aching pull. It's a comforting fantasy, one he wants to sink into, so he closes his eyes and tries to hold it more firmly in his mind.

His hand slips lower. Connor leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes as he tentatively strokes his fingers across the smooth expanse of skin between his thighs. He isn't sure what he's supposed to feel, but he supposes it feels nice enough. He hasn't ever touched himself here other than whatever incidental contact happened when getting dressed. Surely technicians had done so, during maintenance or assembly, but he tried not to think on them if he could avoid it. The only touch he'd known for so long was clinical at best, but more often angry or violent.

Even from Hank, once, but he doesn't want to think about that, now. Instead, he thinks about the soft, sleepy smile Hank gave him when he went to bed. About how large his hand is in comparison to Connor's own.

He spreads his palm over the blank space, trying to cover as much of it as possible. Trying to feel what he'd feel if it was Hank's hand touching him.

There's something pleasing about the thought of it, he decides. A soft, private part of his body that the world can't see, caressed by rough, tender hands. Hank would try touching him in different ways, he thinks, to see how Connor reacted to them all. He presses down with the flat of his hand, slides it teasingly down his inner thigh and back again, then kneads his fingers roughly where he knows something would be, if his designers had bothered to provide him with anything at all.

Something sparks beneath his curious touch. A faint flutter of sensation, just for a moment, but it's enough to make Connor's hips jerk up to chase more of that feeling.

There—

The tips of Connor's first and third fingers press over the area where, beneath his dermal layer, there runs a seam over the connection ports into which a genital attachment would be installed.

It's sensitive, even without any component present.

Connor hugs a throw pillow to his chest as he rubs the spot again, and the flutter of pleasure returns. Having something to hold makes it easier, somehow, to imagine clinging to Hank as he maps the smooth rise of Connor's groin with his hand, as he presses his palm against the upwards rocking of Connor's hips and teases him with gentle strokes of his fingertips against the places that make him shake and shudder with pleasure. Connor sighs, so quietly he's sure he can't be heard, as he traces along that sensitive seam again and again. The sparking sensation spreads beneath his skin, delicious and dangerous in equal parts.

There's something unsettling about pleasure like this, Connor decides; he can understand why people are driven to make so many irrational decisions in the name of sexual gratification. He's never found anything about his body to be unfamiliar, but this is an entire unmapped world laid out before him.

He'd rather not explore it on his own, if he's being honest with himself. This understanding of his desire feels too new, too unknown, too overwhelming to experience on his own.

But Connor doesn't have a choice at the moment; he's alone in a room lit only by the yellow pulse of his LED, touching himself while he holds a pillow and wishes he was holding Hank. 

He has to make do on his own, so he closes his eyes and thinks of Hank's thick fingers replacing his own, and his rough, sweet voice rumbling in his ear, telling him he'll take care of him. That he'll give Connor just what he needs.

As he'd felt in the sea of preconstructions earlier, a strange feeling builds within him, a coiled spring tightening into something that can't help but unwind in a bright, hot moment. Tension twists through his wiring as his fingers press and slide against his skin, fumbling for the seam when an errant jerk of his hips bucks his hand from the most sensitive spot.

He whines in frustration, trying to keep his touch focused on the precise point above the empty ports, but the harder he tries to focus, the more elusive the feeling becomes, slipping from beneath his fingers the moment he finds it. Suddenly it's—

It's not enough.

It's not enough because it's not Hank's hand between his legs, not really, and suddenly Connor feels impossibly foolish, trying to replicate that imagined feeling while barely knowing what he's doing at all.

"I can't do this," Connor says into the empty room. He pulls his hand out of his pants and buries his face in the throw pillow. It smells faintly of Hank's deodorant and he lets himself imagine, for just a moment, that it's him. Connor hugs the pillow and tries to pretend his arms are wrapped around Hank's warm, broad chest, but now any attempt to imagine what it would be like to touch Hank in the ways he wants feels hollow. Maybe a little pathetic. His arousal and frustration and shame tangle together in his chest like a snarl of wires stripped bare and shorting each other out.

Connor doesn't need to enter stasis tonight, so he has plenty of time to sit and consider exactly what all of this means, besides the obvious and now-unavoidable fact of his attraction, and what he should do about it, but he doesn't want to. He shouldn't feel tired, he knows, but he's exhausted all the same.

Being alone in the dark for hours while he tries to sort this out is the last thing he wants.

He understands, suddenly, why Hank likes to fall asleep on the couch. He doesn't know why he does it—which is just a convenient lie he tells himself at the time, because of course he knows—but he grabs his coin from where it sits on the bookshelf and rolls it over his knuckles while he paces. There's no reason to walk the length of the hall to Hank's room and back; he can walk circles around the coffee table or make a circuit from the back door to the front, but no, he walks silently down the hall and back and tries to pretend he isn't pausing for just a second each time he nears the bedroom door.

There's no one watching, of course, but he needs to be able to deny it to himself, at least, if he thinks about any of this too hard.

Connor flips the coin with his thumb, lets it land, spinning on his fingertip, and passes it from hand to hand. He tries to focus only on the motion required to keep it moving.

He remembers Hank angrily grabbing the coin from him when they investigated the broadcast at Stratford Tower, and when he offered it back a week later, digging it out of his coat pocket and folding Connor's palm around it as he mumbled an apology.

The coin spins from his ring finger to the index finger of the opposite hand. He turns at the top of the hall and paces back.

It was the first time he'd noticed just how much larger Hank's hands are than his own.

Well. He'd noticed before then, certainly; Connor had always been quite aware of Hank's presence, of his stature. But he hadn't known it so intimately until that moment, when Hank's thick fingers pressed the coin, warm from his body heat, into Connor's palm and curled his fingers down to hold it in place.

Connor flicks the coin from hand to hand, restless and distracted, and thinks of Hank's hands just long enough to miss a catch; the coin glances off a knuckle and drops to the floor in front of the bedroom with a quiet thud.

Connor can't help but linger, when he kneels down to retrieve it, and listen for any sounds from within. Connor knows what Hank's breathing sounds like, when he's asleep; it's deep and slow, sometimes turning to a soft, wheezing snore. He can hear slow, rhythmic breathing, but it isn't the breath of someone in deep sleep; it sounds like the measured breathing of someone desperate to fall asleep but unable to do so despite their best efforts. There's a rustle of blankets and the faint sound of Hank turning over. He turns again, three minutes later, and a third time seven minutes after that.

Connor's still kneeling at the door, the coin motionless in his palm. 

This is inappropriate, he thinks, as he folds his hand into a fist around it.

It's intrusive, he tells himself.

He knows Hank's trying to sleep, but he also knows he's failing. And Connor's lonely and confused, and he wants to let himself be selfish for a moment.

He knocks softly. 

"What's—Connor? 's that you?"

"You aren't asleep," Connor says through the door.

"I told you," Hank says, voice muffled but clearly conveying his exhaustion, "I'm not very good at falling asleep some nights."

Connor places his palm against the door; if it was unlatched, the pressure would be enough to push it open. He isn't sure what to say next; the knock had been impulsive, and he's not good with impulse. He likes to plan, but so little about how he feels about Hank has followed any sort of plan.

"Is something wrong?" Hank asks, sounding more alert now.

"No," Connor says, "I'm fine, it's—"

"Come in, already," Hank interrupts, speaking a little more loudly than the quiet murmurs they've been trading up until now. "Don't want to talk to you through a closed door, whatever it is."

Hank flicks on the bedside lamp as Connor opens the door. He's sitting up, hair wild from his restless attempts at sleep, and the sheets are pooled over his thighs so Connor can see he's still wearing the thin, tight clothes he had on earlier.

He won't let himself get distracted, he thinks, no matter how good Hank looks even when he's exhausted and disheveled like this. He can't. He's already intruding too much.

"I'm sorry," he says, as he approaches the bed. It tumbles out of him before Hank can ask what's wrong again, before he's barely two paces inside the room. "I shouldn't have bothered you."

"You're not bothering me," Hank sighs. "Like you said, I wasn't asleep anyway, not for lack of trying. Why're you acting so squirrelly, though? Did something happen?"

I designed a three-dimensional model of your erect penis while you were sleeping, Connor thinks. I had dozens of sexual fantasies about you at once and overstimulated myself. I just tried to masturbate but it didn't feel right because you weren't there.

"I felt lonely, I suppose," he says, instead of any of what he's thinking. "I thought about what you said about being alone with your thoughts late at night. I think I understand now."

"Everything okay?" Hank asks, brow furrowed in concern. He pats the bed beside him. "Come on, sit down."

"I shouldn't."

"If you don't want to sit, don't sit," Hank says, a little hurt. "But don't tell me you shouldn't."

Connor wants it too much, he thinks, which is why he knows he shouldn't; still, it's hard to say no when his heart isn't in it. He nods, bites back another apology, and sits stiffly on the edge of the mattress. It feels shockingly intimate to share space with Hank on his own bed. 

"Listen," Hank says. "I know you didn't come knocking at my door at, uh," he glances at the bedside clock. "Christ, at quarter past one in the morning because you felt lonely out there. Or not just because of that." He pats Connor's shoulder gently. "So what's so important it couldn't wait until morning?"

Hank's so sweet, is the thing Connor keeps coming back to. He's sweet, and beautiful, and sitting so close Connor can feel his body heat. He wants Hank to touch him again.

So he tells the truth.

"I had sexual fantasies about you," he says. He stares resolutely at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

"Uh," Hank says. "What?"

"I didn't understand what I was feeling, why I kept thinking about you in certain ways, but tonight you—"

He doesn't think he can tell Hank about the specific moment that sparked his understanding. "You were so—" Connor glances up, sees confusion on Hank's face, and tries again. "Something brought those feelings into focus, tonight. I understood why I enjoy it so much when you touch me. Why I always want more."

"And so you, uh." Hank trails off, seemingly unable to finish the sentence, and Connor worries he's upset at the idea of it. That it was as inappropriate as Connor had feared, to think of him that way without his consent.

"I preconstructed several sexual scenarios involving you," he says, returning his gaze to his lap. He can't bear to look at Hank right now. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's—I'm not mad," Hank says. Connor feels the bed shift as Hank moves closer. "You don't need to apologize for anything."

"I violated your privacy," Connor says. "It's not the intended purpose of that software."

"Hell, I could name a dozen things you did today that weren't part of the intended purpose when some assholes made you," Hank says. "If you want to use your million dollar brain to think about sex, more power to you, I guess." He shrugs. "Me, though? You don't think there are better people to have those thoughts about?" 

"No," Connor says, thankful that Hank doesn't seem upset. He's confused, possibly, or unsure, but that's easier for Connor to manage. "I'm attracted to you, specifically. There isn't anyone else I want to be physically intimate with."

"Me," Hank says again. He seems to be stuck on this particular point.

"Who else would it be?" Connor asks.

"Someone, I don't know, younger? More attractive? Has his shit together?"

"He wouldn't be you," Connor says. "That's what matters to me." He turns to face Hank fully and takes in the shape of him, sturdy and soft and stretching his old clothing to its limit. He can't think of a more appealing image, other than seeing Hank without any clothing on at all, but this isn't the time to let himself get distracted.

"Besides," he says, "you're the most attractive man I know."

"Okay, now I know you're bullshitting me," Hank grumbles, but even in the dim light Connor can see his cheeks flush.

"Even if you disagree with my assessment of your appearance," Connor protests, "which I can back up with a detailed list of facts and observations, by the way, surely you know I wouldn't lie to you about how I feel."

"No, I know," Hank admits. "You wouldn't."

"I understand that I've put you in an awkward position by telling you about my feelings," Connor says, quietly, "assuming you don't share them, and I apologize for that." He knows he's apologizing too much, but it's hard to stop.

Hank's face falls, and he reaches out and takes Connor's hand. "Assuming I don't—Jesus, Connor, of course I have feelings for you. Of course I'm attracted to you. I just—I didn't want to pressure you, and I figured there was no way you'd feel the same."

"You can't say 'of course' about any of this like you expect me to know," Connor protests. It's hard to think clearly when all he wants to do is focus on Hank's thumb rubbing small circles into the back of his hand, but he knows this is important. "You've done this before. You understand what arousal feels like, and what sexual activities you enjoy, and what it means to be in a relationship with someone. I have no experience, no concrete understanding of what these things entail in a practical sense. How could I have assumed you felt the same way I do? How could I assume anything?"

"That's fair," Hank says. "Shit, it's more than fair." He holds Connor's gaze as he brings his hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. "Maybe we were both scared to talk first, huh?" He kisses them again. Connor shivers at the contrast between Hank's soft lips and the slight coarseness of his beard. This simple, chaste brush of Hank's lips across his hand is one of the most pleasurable things he's experienced, but while he's trying to focus on the sensation as closely as possible, to ensure he won't forget any aspect of the experience, his mind is also frantically spiraling out into every other way he wants Hank to kiss him.

Hank squeezes his hand gently and Connor realizes he's probably waiting for a response. For some continuation of the conversation that isn't Connor staring blissfully into space while he imagines Hank's mouth pressed between his thighs.

"I wouldn't have known what to say," he says. "I thought I was only curious about the differences between your body and mine. I didn't know why I kept thinking about every way you could touch me." He shifts his hand to slide his fingers in between Hank's, and enjoys how Hank immediately opens his grip to welcome him. He can feel the thickness of every finger in precise detail.

"I didn't intend to tell you any of this, tonight," he admits. "I certainly didn't intend to intrude in your space while you were trying to sleep. I felt off-balance, I suppose you could say. The realization of how I felt brought some unpleasant feelings, and I acted rashly."

"Hey," Hank says. "It's okay. I'm glad you did, even if you didn't plan on it. Do you want—"

Whatever he's about to say next is interrupted by a huge yawn. Hank rubs at his eyes and somehow looks even more tired than before. "Shit," he says. He lets go of Connor's hand, but places his hand on his thigh before Connor can feel too upset at the loss of contact. "Listen. I want to hear more about how you're feeling. If you want to tell me what upset you, I want to hear about that too. And I get that we haven't really talked about what we want, not really."

"I thought I was clear," Connor says. "I want to have sex with you."

"Christ, yeah, I got that," Hank grumbles, almost as if he's mad about it, but Connor can tell from his elevated heartrate and the way the flush on his face deepens that he's pleased. Pleased and embarrassed, maybe.

Connor sees a thin sheen of sweat on Hank's face and longs to lick it off, but he knows Hank's trying to find the words to say something and doesn't want to distract him. He makes a note of the impulse; perhaps he'll be able to explore it later.

"My point is, if we're going to do this, I want to do it right, and I can tell I'm too fucking exhausted to talk about anything important without fucking it up somehow. I don't want you to feel like I'm blowing you off, but can we pick this up in the morning?" He stifles another yawn, this one wide enough that Connor hears his jaw crack.

"Certainly," Connor says; he'd rather continue talking, of course, but he understands Hank's need for sleep, and it's clear that he's being honest about his current level of fatigue. "I understand." He stands up to leave, but Hank catches him by the forearm before he can step away from the bed.

"I didn't mean—" Hank squeezes his arm gently before letting go. "I'm not kicking you out. I think I'd sleep better if you were here, anyway. If you want to stay."

Of course Connor wants to stay close to Hank. If there's a constant in his thoughts, something he can anchor himself to, this is it.

The armchair near the bed has a pile of clothing haphazardly thrown over it, but Connor's sure it won't take more than a minute to clean it off. He has the first shirt in his hands, trying to decide if he should fold it before finding a place to put it, when Hank says, "hey, no, I meant here. In bed." He tentatively pats the bare sheet next to him, where he's pulled the duvet back. "If that's not too much."

"As long as I won't disturb you," Connor says. The thought of lying next to Hank, possibly close enough to touch, while he's asleep is immensely appealing.

"Like I said, I think I'll sleep better with you here. And if I don't, it isn't like I was getting any without you, either. Stop fussing with my clothes and come here, if you're coming."

Connor drops the shirt without a second thought. "I've never been in a bed before," he says. He regrets saying it, a little, when he sees Hank's face fall just a bit; he knows Hank gets upset when he's reminded of the things Connor has never experienced, or was never meant to experience. He doesn't like making Hank upset, but it also stirs up something warm and sweet inside him when he notices it.

He knows it means Hank cares about him.

"First time for everything," Hank says, and pats the bed again. "You might wanna, uh. Take your pants off," he says. "More comfortable that way. We can get you some better clothes to sleep in, if you want."

Connor's pretty sure "If you want to spend the night here with me again" is the end of Hank's line of thought, and while he hasn't even done it a first time he's sure he'll want to continue. Hopefully Hank will feel the same, once the night is over.

Once they've said whatever they're going to say to each other in the morning.

Connor understands Hank's desire to discuss things when he's less tired, but he can't help but feel anxious about matters hanging uncertain and unresolved between them until then. Hank seems to want something like what Connor does, but without clarity Connor isn't sure how to feel.

He certainly has no idea what's expected of him in bed.

But Hank suggested he take his pants off, and he's politely rolled on his side so Connor can do so in privacy, so he steps out of them and drapes them neatly over the back of the chair where they blend in with Hank's other clothes.

"Can you get the light?" Hank asks, still facing away, but once the room's dark again, he rolls back over.

Connor's still standing at the edge of the bed.

"You don't have to stay, Connor," Hank says, cautiously. "I thought you might want to, but it's all right if you don't."

"No, I—" Connor sits on the edge of the bed and swings his legs up, tucking them under the covers. "I want to be here. I'm just not sure what to do."

"Do you want to come here for a sec?" Hank asks, and in the dark Connor can see his arm held up, beckoning him into an embrace.

And yes, this is exactly what Connor wants. He half-leans, half-rolls himself over until he's pressed into Hank, head tucked under his chin and face smushed into the softness of his chest. Hank lowers his arm, wrapping it and the blankets around Connor's back.

"Is this all right?" he asks, as he rubs his hand gently over Connor's back in long, slow strokes.

"You're so warm," Connor murmurs, turning his head slightly so he won't be entirely muffled. He'd wondered how it would feel not to be hugged tightly for a handful of seconds, but to be fully embraced, to be held by Hank, and how that it's happening he feels lost in it, surrounded by Hank's strong arms and nestled into his broad, sturdy torso. He lets himself relax into the embrace and feels the rumble of Hank's chuckle as he does so through his whole body.

"You all right there?" Hank asks again, although Connor knows he knows the answer.

"It feels good," he says. He wants to be more eloquent, to tell Hank something about how large the span of his palm feels pressed against Connor's spine or how he's overwhelmed by the scent that clings this close to Hank's skin, but he's focusing so intently on feeling that it's hard to think of what to say.

"Mmm," Hank murmurs into his hair. "That's what I want to hear."

Connor slides an arm under Hank's, tentatively petting down his side and back until he feels Hank lean into his hand encouragingly. Through the thin undershirt he can feel the broad planes of his back and the softness padding his waist; it's a delicious feeling, touching Hank's body so slowly and carefully, and he hopes he'll have the chance to explore more extensively in the near future. Hank sighs heavily and makes a low, contented noise.

"You're real sweet," he says. "'m gonna try to get to sleep, but it might take me a while."

"I'll be here," Connor says. 

Hank yawns again, and kisses Connor's forehead. His hand moves more and more slowly over Connor's back until it stills altogether, and a few minutes later, Connor feels Hank's arm grow slack and heavy with sleep. 

Connor doesn't enter stasis right away. He could stay alert all night, if he wanted to; there's a part of him that's tempted, so that he won't miss any moment of this. He could count all of Hank's breaths as the hours slip by, and track the steady rhythm of his heart beneath his palm. But stasis is a way for him to process and incorporate new information into his understanding of himself and of the world, and after his unplanned confession to Hank, tonight, and the promise of something to come tomorrow, even if he doesn't yet know what it is, he has a lot of information to digest. He knows that just as Hank will feel better after sleep, he'll be more equipped to answer when Hank asks him what he wants, in the morning.

He'll enter stasis, he tells himself. He will. But he wants, first, to absorb everything he can from the experience of Hank holding him close. Even if, somehow, he never has the chance again, he wants his memory of this night to be perfect.

He sets a timer; after an hour, he'll automatically slip into a five-hour stasis period, which should give him enough time to take care of whatever's necessary while allowing him to resume normal consciousness before Hank wakes up. He finds the thought of watching Hank sleep while the morning light filters in through the curtains particularly appealing.

Watching Hank, in any situation, has appealed to him for a long time. In the dark, there isn't as much to see, but that's all right; he can focus more on how he can feel the rise and fall of Hank's chest as he breathes and how comforting the weight of his arm is across his back.

It's difficult, of course, not to let his thoughts wander in the direction they've already gone tonight. To imagine Hank rolling over top of him, his body a delicious weight as he grinds against Connor's thigh and murmurs in his sleep-roughened voice how badly he wants him. To think about Hank kissing him again, not gently on his forehead but messily down his neck, letting his teeth graze against Connor's skin. To consider, once again, what it might be like if Hank's hand strayed down to the smooth, soft space between Connor's legs and rubbed and pressed against the spot that had felt so good, if only for a moment, when Connor had touched it earlier.

It's difficult, but not impossible, and so he does manage to brush those thoughts aside. He makes note of them and creates a specific list of sexual thoughts and fantasies he wants to return to later, making sure to add the most enticing preconstructions from earlier; afterwards, he forces himself to focus on other aspects of sharing a bed with Hank that are less...disruptive. He doesn't want his own excitement to disturb Hank's sleep, after all.

Connor rolls to his other side, back pressed to Hank's chest, and spends the rest of the hour before stasis pulls his focus inward marveling at how perfectly their bodies seem to fit together. He rests his hand over Hank's in the moments just before his awareness of his surroundings fades.

Connor drifts off feeling warm, safe, and content. 

* * *

Connor understands, as well as he can understand a subjective experience he does not and can not share, that the process of waking up happens gradually, if there isn't an alarm or other disruptive element involved. Exiting stasis is not like that; one moment his awareness is turned inward, stripped down to an intricate knot of code working and reworking itself to make sense of his exterior life, and the next he feels the weight of physical embodiment, as well as the deep comfort of touch. Of knowing it's Hank's body he's touching.

Hank's arm is still wrapped around him, but now Connor's tucked into Hank's side while Hank sleeps on his back; apparently they'd shifted while Connor was in stasis. He leans further into Hank, letting his head slide from his shoulder to his chest, and, after a moment's hesitation, rests his hand on his chest as well, feeling the slow, steady beat of Hank's heart at rest.

He's staring at the faded lines of Hank's tattoo that peek out from beneath his undershirt, resisting the temptation to trace them with his finger, when Hank stirs next to him.

"Hey there," Hank says. 

"Did I wake you?" Connor asks. He'd kept his touch as light and gentle as possible, but perhaps since Hank wasn't used to having someone else in bed with him, it was easy to wake him by accident.

"Nah," Hank says. He brushes his hand against Connor's back, a whisper of a touch. "I wouldn't mind if you had, though."

"I don't want to disrupt your sleep," Connor protests, but Hank laughs him off.

"I slept like a fucking baby last night, you know that?"

"You did fall asleep very quickly, despite your worries to the contrary."

"Exactly." Hank's hand settles low on Connor's back. "You're not disrupting anything. I told you I'd sleep better if you were here, didn't I?"

"I suppose you did." Connor's hand still rests over Hank's heart, and as they gaze at each other he can feel it beat faster. Even now, curled up with Hank on his bed, at his invitation, he's hesitant to ask for anything else, but wants so much, so intensely, that it feels like it's pouring out of him, like Hank could see his desire if he looked directly at him.

Connor wants very badly to map out more of Hank's body beneath his curious hands, to press his sensitive fingertips over every inch of him to feel the texture of his skin and catalog his reactions to being touched, but he knows now isn't the time. "Can we pick this up in the morning?" Hank had asked, but now that morning's come Connor isn't sure what to do. He doesn't want to immediately press Hank for his feelings, but he isn't sure what to do with himself if they leave things unresolved.

He didn't mean to tell Hank what he'd realized about his feelings for him, not really. He hadn't planned it out. Now he feels uncomfortably exposed. Hank's been nothing but sweet to him, especially considering the fact that Connor barged into his room late at night and dropped a surprising confession on him without warning, but even though he's been kind, Connor still feels a bit wrong-footed.

"Hey," Hank says, tapping Connor's LED where he's flashing yellow. "Is this still ok? Do I need to give you some space?"

"I don't want space."

It's an understatement.

"Fine by me," Hank says, and while his tone is light, Connor hears the relief in it. Perhaps they're both uncertain, this morning. "Do you..." Hank trails off. Connor's hand rises and falls as Hank takes a deep, steadying breath. "Do you want to talk about what you do want, maybe?"

"I feel entirely unprepared," Connor admits, "to discuss my sexual and romantic desires with you." Hank's eyes widen slightly and he looks like he's about to reply, but Connor pushes on before he has the chance.

"I'm unprepared, but not unwilling," he says. "I don't know if you realize how much I rely on rehearsing and planning to navigate new situations smoothly. I want to tell you how I feel, Hank, but I barely understand it myself."

"But you know what you want," Hank presses, gently.

"Yes."

"Would it help," Hank says, "if i went first?" He rests a hand over top of Connor's, and Connor feels his pulse through his chest and wrist, a faint reverberation to remind him this is real. Not like last night's preconstructions. "I've done this before—well. I've had conversations like this. A little like this." Hank sighs. "Can't say I'm good at it, but I don't mind being the one to start, if that makes it easier."

It does make it easier, Connor realizes: not Hank saying his piece first, although there's an appeal to letting him take a turn at vulnerability before Connor must do it again, but the fact that he offered.

He's not worried, Connor thinks. He's nervous, just like me, but he isn't afraid. At least, not of what I'll say. 

Connor shakes his head. "I appreciate the offer, but no." He sits up, reluctantly; he hates to lose the warmth and solidity of Hank's arm around him but he needs to create enough distance that he won't get distracted by how Hank's body feels against his. If—if he's lucky, there will be time for that later. If he's not, well. Best to cut himself off now.

"Everything I told you last night is true," he says. "I thought I enjoyed looking at you because I was curious about human bodies, about how different you are from me. How big you are. I thought I enjoyed it when you touched me because casual touch is common in good friendships, and something you tend to initiate more when you're in a good mood, and I value those things. None of that is inaccurate, of course, but I realized last night that I have these thoughts because I'm attracted to you. I crave your touch because it arouses me and because I want you to desire me, to crave contact with my body as much as I crave it with yours. I want to see you aroused and to know that I was the source of that arousal. I want to bring you sexual pleasure."

Hank's face is flushed, his lips slightly parted. "Yeah, that's. That's pretty clear, I guess," he says.

"Some of what I want is less so," Connor says. "I don't entirely understand the difference between a close friendship and a romantic relationship, but I want that, as well."

"It's whatever you want it to be," Hank says, gently. "You talk to the other person about what you want it to mean, and you decide together. We have a good thing going already, don't you think?"

Connor nods.

"So we add onto that. Whatever sounds good to both of us."

"And you want this, too?" Connor asks. "It isn't just me?"

He knows, at this point but he has to ask, anyway. He needs to hear it from Hank and not from his social integration software or his ability to scan his vital signs.

"It's not just you," Hank says, and he hesitates just enough that Connor can hear where he swallows an endearment, something he longs to call Connor but can't, just yet. There's a sweetness to knowing that, even if the word stays hidden for now. "Like I said, I never wanted you to feel pressured, or beholden to me for anything. And I may have hoped, sometimes, but I never thought you'd want me like that, not really."

"I do," Connor says. He's restrained himself admirably so far, he thinks, but Hank's still wearing clothing that leaves very little to the imagination, still soft and warm and being so, so careful with him, and his mind is still full of the sea of images he conjured up the night before, so many he nearly forced himself into a hard restart of his system.

Restraint can only last for so long.

"Please let me show you how much I want you," Connor says, as he straddles Hank's lap. 

Hank freezes for a moment, long enough that Connor worries he's misjudged the situation entirely, but then his hands, warm and impossibly broad, settle low on his hips and tug him forward. "Don't know why I'm still trying to resist you," Hank mutters.

"You have me," Connor says, then again: "Let me show you."

"Yeah," Hank breathes. He licks his lips.

Connor's overwhelmed, for a moment, by the weight of his desire. He cups his hand around Hank's jaw and brushes his thumb over the subtle scratch of his cheeks where the stubble's coming in. "There are so many things I want," he murmurs. "I don't know where to start."

"Kiss me," Hank says. His voice is hoarse, almost shaking, and he sounds nearly as desperate for it as Connor feels.

When given an invitation so lovely, Connor thinks, it would be rude not to accept it.

He leans in. Hank's lips are full and soft, slightly chapped from the recent cold weather, and they part wonderfully when Connor kisses him. It's a bit clumsy, at first, but Hank lifts a hand from his hip to cradle the back of Connor's head, angling it slightly and holding him in place when his uncertainty tells him to pull away and try again.

"There's no rush," Hank says. "Maybe I have something to show you, too." He tightens his fingers in Connor's hair, just enough to send a wave of effervescence through his awareness as every follicle lights up in pleasure, and tilts Connor's head back and to the side, exposing his neck.

"How about this?" Hank asks, so close to Connor's skin he feels his beard brush against his neck as his mouth moves, and then he presses a kiss to the underside of Connor's jaw.

"Ah!" Connor can't help but cry out. His skin feels much more sensitive when Hank touches him than when he touches himself—and even now, distracted as he is by the hot trail of kisses Hank is leaving down his neck, Connor wonders how this principle might apply to the smooth expanse between his thighs—but he hadn't expected something so simple to feel this good.

The contrast between Hank's soft mouth and the coarse hair of his beard, the rumble of the sounds of approval Hank makes at his reaction, and the feel of his solid body beneath him are enough to flood his system with sensation; it's almost too much, and somehow he knows this can only be the start of it.

He wants Hank's lips on his again; he tugs his beard, perhaps a bit more roughly than he intended, to get his attention and redirect him back to his own mouth. This kiss is as messy as the first were, but Hank no longer seems to mind; he makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, as Connor licks desperately into his mouth.

There's a burst of feedback, an explosion of information, that his oral sensors present to him when he tastes Hank at last; he shudders, a little, overwhelmed by it even though he'd known it would happen. Hank starts to pull back, concerned, but Connor tugs again, prompting another growl, and holds him still.

Connor's other hand has been braced on Hank's chest; he flexes it, now, kneading gently into the slight softness there and stroking the hair that peeks out from the neckline of Hank's undershirt. He brushes his thumb over Hank's nipple and is rewarded with a groan and a slow roll of his hips.

"Can I kiss you here?" Connor asks, rolling Hank's nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Anywhere you want," Hank says. "Fuck."

Connor leans back far enough to reach down and grab the hem of Hank's shirt; as he starts to pull it off—peel it off, really, considering how wonderfully tight it is—he sees Hank's hand shift, as if he's reconsidering and wants to tug it back down again, but he seems reassured by Connor's reaction as more and more of his body is uncovered; Hank resettles his hand on Connor's thigh and seems content to let him take in the sight of him.

It's a lot.

Connor knows what Hank looks like, of course; he's spent what some might consider an unreasonable amount of time, lately watching him. Storing images to a protected area of his memory. Thinking, less objectively than he'd originally thought, about how handsome he is.

Seeing him half-naked is still a revelation. There's so much of him, and so much of his life visible on his body in a way Connor can never experience: scars, moles, the faded span of his tattoo, a faint array of stretch marks etched into his sides. The silver scattered through the hair that covers his chest and belly.

"Mmm," Connor hums, pleased, as he admires Hank. Admires the flush that's spread from his face down to his collarbone. Nearly down to the reason he took his shirt off in the first place.

"Are you going to stare forev—" Hank starts to say, but he seems to lose his train of thought rather quickly when Connor pushes him flat against the bed and leans down to take his nipple into his mouth.

It's fascinating, Connor decides, to consider the variety of textures that make up the human body. Hank's lips and tongue feel different from the skin on his hand or arm, and his nipple is something else entirely. It seems designed to make him want to lick and suck it, and the more attention he lavishes on it, the tighter and more appealing the skin becomes under his mouth.

"Oh god," Hank gasps, when Connor turns his attention to his other nipple, while continuing to rub the pad of his thumb over the first.

"You're very sensitive here," Connor murmurs, "aren't you?"

"Yeah, a bit," Hank says. "Jesus." His hips rock underneath Connor and he feels Hank's erection brush against him for a moment before Hank stills himself again.

"Don't stop on my account," Connor says. He sits up enough to hold Hank's gaze as he rocks back, just enough that the back of his thigh barely makes contact. "I want to feel you."

Hank grabs Connor's hips and holds him still. "I'm trying to be polite," he says, voice rough, "but you're making it difficult."

"I don't want you to be polite," he says, because he knows there's no risk of Hank being any rougher with him than he wants. (He doesn't want him to be rough at all, not now, but he wonders if that might change, in the future. Once things feel slightly less new and overwhelming.) "I want you to touch me."

Hank's hands tighten on Connor's hips. "Yeah?" he asks. "You want to tell me where you like to be touched?" Hank's hard enough now that Connor feels him when he leans back a little more; he whines at the thought of it, and how hot and thick Hank's penis feels even through their clothing; for a moment, all he can think about is getting his hands on it. Stretching his mouth around it.

But he wants Hank's hands, too, wants them mapping out every sensitive place on his body. He opens his mouth to say so, but all that slips out is another soft, broken whine.

"You too distracted to tell me what you want?" Hank asks, and Connor nods.

"I want everything."

"Maybe not all at once," Hank replies, "but why don't I get started?" He slides a hand underneath Connor's shirt. "How about we get rid of this, first?"

Connor nods, eager to have as few barriers between Hank's body and his as possible. "I'm not sure," he says, as Hank pulls his shirt over his head, and at Hank's worried look he shakes his head and scrambles to explain.

"I'm not sure what I like," he says. "I can't imagine there's a wrong place you could touch me; any thought I have of your hands on me is arousing. But my own experience is limited; I'm not sure what to tell you."

"That's all right," Hank says. He shifts and eases Connor onto the bed, curling up beside him. "You liked this," he continues, leaning in to kiss Connor's neck, and Connor moans his agreement.

"So. Let's see what else feels good, and you just tell me if I miss the mark, okay?"

Connor agrees, but he can't imagine anything Hank would want to do that he wouldn't enjoy.

Hank kisses his way down Connor's neck and grazes his teeth over the junction of his neck and shoulder, a gentle scrape followed by the wet flat of his tongue. He moves deliciously slowly, his mouth soft and wet and careful as he explores Connor's body. He's tucked one arm under Connor's neck and has the other hand splayed over his ribs, and even the size of it, in contrast to Connor's torso, is arousing.

Connor has quickly come to realize that he loves how much space Hank takes up, in his life, in bed, in relation to his own body. There's so much of him, and still he wants more. 

"Your hand," Connor says, and when Hank doesn't immediately know what he wants—he can't expect him to, Connor knows, but it's hard to form the right words when his mind is focused on feeling, not on communicating—he takes Hank's hand in his and guides it to his mouth.

Hank watches intently as Connor rubs Hank's fingertips across his bottom lip.

"I thought about this," Connor says. "Earlier tonight."

"You did?"

Connor flicks his tongue out, just enough to wet Hank's fingertips. "I wanted you to put your fingers in my mouth. I tried it myself, while you were doing laundry, but it didn't feel right."

"It didn't?"

Connor shakes his head. "It wasn't you."

"Oh, honey," Hank says. "I'm here now. What do you need?"

Connor wordlessly opens his mouth and tugs on Hank's wrist, and he slides his first two fingers inside. Connor can't help but sigh his satisfaction when he feels the subtle ridges of Hank's fingerprints slide against his tongue as he sucks his fingers deeper into his mouth. Just as he knew they'd be, they're thicker than two of his own. Rougher, too; Hank's fingers are callused in a way his can never become.

His oral sensors are flooded with data; he can identify sweat, hand soap, traces of pet dander. He could concentrate, if he wanted to, to pick out more, but while the information is fascinating, and pleasurable in its own way, he wants to focus on the physical fact that part of Hank's body is inside his own.The simple weight of his fingers as they gently curl to press and stroke against his tongue is nearly more than he can stand.

"Jesus christ," Hank says, "this is really doing it for you all on its own, isn't it?"

Connor's reluctant to give up the feeling of Hank in his mouth to reply more directly, but he nods and moans around Hank's fingers, which is a clear enough answer on its own.

"Fuck," Hank says, so quietly it's as if he's talking to himself. He pulls his fingers back, nearly all the way out, and just as Connor reaches for his hand to stop him from pulling out entirely, he pushes them back in again. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, petting Connor's shoulder reassuringly with his free hand. "Just thought you might like the feel of this."

And oh, Connor does. He loves the slow slide of Hank's thick fingers into his mouth and the anticipation, each time he pulls back, of the moment when he'll push them back inside. Hank pushes just a bit deeper with every gentle thrust until Connor feels his fingertips nudge the back of his throat and gives a low, muffled cry in surprise.

"Shit, sorry," Hank says, and pulls back as if he'd been burned, but Connor shakes his head. He sucks harder, leaning up into Hank's hand until he gets the message and lets his fingers slide into Connor's throat again.

He's never felt filled like this before, never had an experience even remotely similar to taking something—let alone part of someone—into his body in a way that feels good to him. He thinks, distantly, that he could suck on Hank's fingers for hours, although he suspects Hank might lose interest before he did. He seems sufficiently interested now, at least; all the signs of arousal that Connor had noticed before are still present.

He's erect still, or again; Connor can feel Hank's penis pressing against his thigh when he shifts against him. He wants Hank to move against him more deliberately, wants to feel the hot length of him grinding into his thigh, or his hand, or for Hank to slip his fingers out of his mouth entirely and guide Connor's mouth down to his lap instead.

At the thought of it, of stretching his mouth wider to accommodate the girth of Hank's erection, of tracking his pulse through the throbbing of his arousal, of tasting his pre-ejaculate, Connor's mouth fills with analysis fluid once again.

The function had reset and recalibrated while Connor was in stasis, but his desire to taste Hank is too strong. "Sorry," Connor tries to say around Hank's fingers, when the fluid starts to drip out of his mouth, but it just makes more of a mess.

"Don't know why you're apologizing," Hank rumbles into his ear. "Do you know how amazing you look right now? Blissed out with your mouth stretched around my fingers? Fuck, Connor." He hooks his thumb under Connor's chin, turning his head for better access to his neck, and trails a handful of kisses along it while Connor whines and sucks his fingers. "The only thing you need to do," he says, so close Connor feels his hot breath on his skin, "is let me help you feel good."

Connor thinks of the errant spark he felt when he touched himself, earlier. It didn't quite feel right, not like he felt it should, but if it was Hank's hands and not his own...

He lets Hank's fingers slip out of his mouth and turns to kiss him, hot and messy and desperate. "Everything you do feels good," he says, between kisses. "Please, I want—"

"Hmm?" Hank asks, when Connor kisses him again instead of finishing his thought. "What is it?"

Connor knows he's in Hank's bed, in his arms, because Hank asked him to be there; he shouldn't feel like he's running the risk of pushing him away because of anything he asks for. Still, he can't help but feel an echo of shame and frustration from the night before. He hardly knows what he wants well enough to put it into words, yet. "There's no rush, if you don't want to tell me everything," Hank says.

"I tried to masturbate," Connor says, "but it didn't feel right. I don't know if it was because I wanted it to be you, or if I'm not—"

Hank rubs his hand in soothing circles over his chest and kisses his temple. He doesn't push Connor to continue; he just stays close and waits.

"I wasn't made with genitals," he says, finally. "I don't know what kind of sexual response I'm capable of." He closes his eyes to avoid seeing the disappointment he fears he'll find on Hank's face. "I don't know how satisfying I can be as a sexual partner."

"Hey," Hank says. "None of that shit, all right?" He cups Connor's face in his hand and brushes his thumb over his cheekbone. Connor can't quite bring himself to look at him yet, but he turns and presses a gentle kiss to Hank's palm.

"You know what's satisfying?" Hank asks. "The thought of taking my time to find everywhere you like to be touched. Seeing what gets you excited. If all we ever do together is this, right here, I'll be happy. Fuck, I'll be more than happy. Don't think for a second you aren't just what I want."

It's sweet, and sincere, and it's enough to soothe some of the worry that's been simmering deep inside Connor's mind. "All right," Connor says. "I'm sorry."

"Forget sorry," Hank grumbles. The hand on his chest slips lower and his fingers graze Connor's hip, sliding down to his thigh. He lets his hand rest there, half on bare skin and half on Connor's underwear; Connor wonders if he means it to be as much of a tease as it feels to him. "Just tell me what you want, honey. If you thought it would feel better if I was the one touching you, there's an easy way to find out, isn't there?"

And oh, this is what Connor wants, the thought that so captivated him the previous night. He wants to chase that deep, twisting heat he felt before. Wants Hank to be the one who chases it with him. "Yes," he breathes. 

"How about I take these off, then?" Hank asks. He slips his thumb under the waistband of Connor's underwear.

It's easier, Connor thinks as he nods his consent, to say yes to what Hank asks than to come up with the answers unprompted on his own. He knows he's free to say he'd rather not be entirely undressed yet, or that he's having second thoughts and wants to stop altogether; neither of these are true, of course, but he knows he could decline what Hank's offering, any or all of it, and Hank wouldn't push. Connor's making the decisions, in the end, but it helps to have Hank nudge him along, so he doesn't get stuck trying to untangle what he wants to consider in the first place.

Connor twitches in surprise when Hank kisses him just below his navel, as he starts to pull his underwear down, and Hank glances up at him, hands frozen halfway down his hips. "Was that okay?"

"You startled me," Connor says, but that isn't quite right. "I was distracted by my own thoughts."

"Stay with me," Hank says. He kisses him again, in the same place, and this time Connor relaxes into it. He has the urge to rock his hips up, seeking Hank's attention, but manages to keep himself still. "Think about what's happening enough to know if you're having a good time, sure, but. Don't get stuck in your head, all right?"

Connor nods; Hank must be looking for another response because he kisses him again, this time next to his hipbone, and he grazes his teeth along it when Connor doesn't reply.

"Oh!" He yelps. "Yes, I'm—I'm here." He reaches down for Hank's hand. "Thank you for being patient with me."

"Don't worry about me," Hank says. "Like I said, I'm not in a rush."

"Even so," Connor says. "I appreciate it."

"I'm being selfish, too," Hank says, as he eases Connor's briefs the rest of the way off and tosses them at the foot of the bed. "Feels good to take my time with you." He kneels next to Connor, hands resting gently on his thigh, and licks his lips as he drinks in the sight of him. "Fuck, look at you."

Connor thinks it would be uncomfortable, if it was anyone else looking at him like this, but it feels good because it's Hank. He knows he's attractive; it was a deliberate part of his design, part of the way he was intended to integrate easily with others and win their trust. Sometimes it's hard to feel any sort of pride in a personal attribute that was designed by a corporate committee, but he decides he quite likes the thought of Hank finding him attractive.

He wants to be enticing. He wants to know Hank's desire is as strong as his.

"You can do more than just look, you know," he says. He brushes his fingertips across his chest and down to his groin and feels a rush of excitement to see how intently Hank watches the path he draws along his body. 

"You're going to give me a goddamn heart attack," Hank says. He settles on his side and tentatively rests his hand over Connor's, not quite touching him but so close Connor could rock his hips up and make contact. "You want to show me anything that feels good? Or should I just go for it and you can let me know?"

"I trust you," Connor says. He knows he could show Hank the place he found earlier, where the sensitive connection ports for a genital component are located, but for now he just wants to experience Hank exploring him without guidance. He's sure it'll feel good, even if Hank doesn't find that particular spot, and there's an appeal to leaving things entirely in Hank's hands for the moment. He pulls his hand out from under Hank's and arches into his touch, encouraging him to explore.

Happily, Hank's good at taking a hint. Hank moans softly as he cups Connor's pubic mound and rubs gently. "You feel so good, honey," he says. "Is this what you wanted?"

Connor whines and bucks his hips up into Hank's gentle touch. "Kiss me," he says, which isn't exactly an answer, but Connor's mind is so overloaded already that he's having difficulty thinking of anything but the basics of want and sensation. He can feel each of Hank's fingertips, and the slow drag of his palm over his groin, and he wants more pressure, more touch, more of Hank on and in and around every part of him. It's easier to turn toward Hank and part his lips than to try and put his thoughts into words.

Hank meets his mouth eagerly. Connor's already feeling overwhelmed by so much happening at once, but Hank seems better-equipped to multitask; his hand slowly maps out the smooth curve of Connor's groin, rubbing and stroking and noting what makes Connor's hips rise to meet him so he can focus on what feels best, but he's also nipping at Connor's lower lip, meeting Connor's inquisitive tongue with his own, and breaking away to press more wet kisses along his neck. 

There aren't any additional sensors in Connor's groin. It's not meant to be an erogenous zone; nothing extra was included, beyond the connection ports, to account for sexual contact. In a truly objective sense, Connor knows, it shouldn't feel any better for Hank to touch him here than it does for him to touch his neck, or his chest.

But any touch from Hank feels pleasurable to begin with, of course; Connor's sure he'd also find an extended, attentive neck massage from Hank to be deeply arousing. And the sight of his hand rubbing and kneading the smooth space between Connor's legs is erotic on its own; it almost looks as if there's something more concrete there that Hank's touching.

Logically, it shouldn't be anything exciting; in practice, it's incredible.

Plus, there's the fact that it doesn't take Hank long to find the seam above the connection ports. Every time Connor shifts his hips or angles himself against Hank to maneuver his hand just where he wants it, Hank's quick to adjust; his broad strokes over Connor's pubic mound become smaller and more precise as he notices Connor's reactions. Eventually, he spreads his fingers and puts pressure over both ports simultaneously, and Connor feels a spike of sensation so strong he briefly worries something's shorted out deep inside him.

He cries out into Hank's mouth and grabs onto the pillow behind him. "Yes, please, Hank, right there!"

Hank keeps up a light pressure while moving his fingers in small circles, as if he's mapping out the boundary of the place that made Connor react so strongly. Visually, he's fairly certain there's no sign of the ports beneath, and there's no textural difference, either; he'd only recognized them the night before because he already understood the basic shape of his own anatomy.

"Something's different about this spot, isn't it?" Hank murmurs.

"Yes," Connor pants. He's breathing hard, trying to vent the excess heat his system's producing as it deals with so much novel stimulation.

Hank slides his fingers away and over the ports again and again, shocking Connor every time with how intense it feels, moreso even than during his own exploration the night before.

"What's it feel like?" Hank asks.

Connor isn't sure how to describe the most intense pleasure he's ever experienced, especially when he's in the middle of it, but he does his best. "It's—ahh—it's like a spark firing deep within me, over and over. I can barely focus on anything but—but how good it feels. How you feel next to me."

"How I feel, huh?" Hank's voice is a deep, satisfied purr in his ear. He throws a leg over Connor's thigh and grinds his erection into it, rolling his hips slowly and deliberately. Whatever restraint had kept Hank from indulging against Connor, as he's wanted him to do this entire time, seems to have fled. "Can you feel how hard I am for you?"

"Oh! Yes," Connor moans. Even through clothing, he can feel the heat of Hank's arousal. Every inch feels incredible rubbing against his thigh through the soft fabric, but it isn't enough. He can't bear to feel less than all of him.

Connor's focusing so much processing power on experiencing what Hank's hand is doing to his ports that his arm feels slow and clumsy when he reaches for him, but he manages to tug at the waistband of Hank's sweatpants. The fact that it only serves to pull Hank closer, and press more of his body against him, is incidental, but he doesn't mind at all. He imagines Hank's full weight bearing down on him, not crushing but enveloping him, and tugs harder. "Take these off."

"I have to stop touching you to do that. Are you sure you want me to?" Hank rolls his fingers along the seam over Connor's ports, pressing in at a new angle, and Connor wails as a command prompt appears in the corner of his awareness.

**BEGIN COMPONENT INSTALLATION AND SYNC Y/N?**

He dismisses the prompt and pulls harder still. Something rips beneath his fingers.

"Jesus," Hank groans, and Connor feels his penis twitch and throb against his thigh. "You're going to tear these fucking things off me, aren't you?"

"If that's what it takes," Connor says, but Hank yanks them off before he can follow through. Connor's so distracted by the sight that he barely misses the friction of Hank's hand; he props himself up on his elbows and watches as Hank pulls the sweatpants off and tosses them to join Connor's underwear at the foot of the bed.

"They were old, anyway," Hank says, kneeling awkwardly beside Connor as if he doesn't know what to do with himself, now that he's naked. "You probably did me a favor tearing a seam, now I have no excuse not to throw them away."

Connor, of course, has no intention of letting Hank get rid of them, but that's an unimportant detail to dwell on now, when he's faced with the sight of Hank naked at last. Nothing's more important than noting the flush of arousal that's made its way from his face down into his chest, or how thick the hair on his thighs is, or...

Well.

It's impolite, perhaps, but he can't help but stare at his erection, flushed and thick and heavy-looking where it rests loosely in Hank's grip.

"I'd say my eyes are up here," Hank says with a chuckle, "but fuck, if you're going to look at me like that I don't particularly mind." He gives himself a slow, teasing stroke and Connor watches, transfixed, as he smears a bead of pre-ejaculate over the head of his penis with his thumb. "I want to get back to where I was a moment ago, but how about a little taste first?" He rubs his thumb over Connor's lower lip before pushing it into his mouth. 

Connor's eyes flutter shut as he takes Hank's thumb into his mouth and the taste of his pre-ejaculate blooms on his tongue. His mouth floods, once again, with analysis fluid, helping his analytical systems break down and make sense of it, but he isn't as concerned with knowing the specific data that makes up what he's been given (although of course he's careful to save that data in a protected subfolder so he's able to return to and examine it at a later date) as he is with the experience of it. Of knowing that Hank chose to give him that taste because he knew Connor wanted it, or because he wanted to see him take it so eagerly. Or both, most likely.

When he opens his eyes, Hank is panting, slowly stroking himself while he presses the pad of his thumb into Connor's tongue. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he growls. "Can't believe how much you love my fingers in your mouth." He shoves his thumb in farther and Connor licks at it in agreement; he does love it. "Can't help but think about you sucking my cock instead."

"Please," Connor says, sitting up further and letting Hank's thumb fall from his mouth. It's dripping wet, and Connor has to focus on swallowing so he doesn't drool all over himself. He's desperate to get his mouth on Hank's penis, to feel it fill his mouth in a way even Hank's wonderfully thick fingers can not.

"You want to?" Hank asks, as if the answer isn't clear. He continues the slow, deliberate pace of his hand as he strokes himself and Connor's mouth waters more as he watches the slide of his foreskin over the head and back.

"Of course I want to." He sees Hank's penis twitch when he says it. He swallows again.

"You were having a good time a moment ago," Hank says. "I don't want to let myself get distracted just yet." He takes his hand off of his penis and presses gently on Connor's sternum, easing him back down on the bed.

"Let me take care of you first," Hank murmurs. "Then you can suck me as long as you want."

"Oh, Hank," Connor sighs, with a shiver of pleasure, "that's what I imagined you telling me, last night. When I..." He trails off. He's not ashamed, exactly, about masturbating, but there's so much tangled up in that moment, so many conflicting feelings and impulses, that it's not as easy to talk about as he'd like it to be. Hopefully over time, it will be.

"What, that I'd take care of you?"

Connor nods.

"Of course I will," Hank says, low and sweet. "Do you want to try something a little different? I just thought of something you might like." He coaxes Connor up; Connor's too polite to point out that Hank just pushed him flat on his back, but when Hank stacks up some pillows to recline against and pulls Connor back into his embrace, so that his back is pressed to Hank's chest and his thighs are bracketed by Hank's, he no longer has any desire to complain, not even in jest.

"I like this already," Connor says.

"I do too." Connor can feel the rumble of Hank's voice through his chest. "Do you want to know what I like about having you like this?"

Connor could probably make an accurate guess. It's likely that Hank enjoys the same aspects of this position that he does: the amount of skin contact, how easy it is for Hank to speak low and close to his ear, the way his erection is pressed, hard and impossible to ignore, against Connor's ass and lower back. Still, he wants to hear Hank say it. 

"Tell me."

Hank settles a hand just below Connor's navel. It's close, so close to where he wants it, but when he shifts his hips, trying to arch up and encourage Hank's hand to slip farther down, Hank shakes his head, beard brushing against the back of Connor's neck.

"First off," he says. "I can feel every little movement you make, just like you're doing right now. And I know you can feel me, can't you?" Without waiting for a reply, he continues. "I have easy access right here, where I already know you're sensitive." He kisses the back of Connor's neck and drags his tongue along his hairline to the shell of his ear. "And where I know you'll hear everything I have to say to you," he murmurs, his low rumble almost a whisper. He nips Connor's earlobe before lavishing more attention on his neck and shoulder, covering them in wet, biting kisses.

"What I think I like the most, though," Hank says, almost conversationally, almost as if he isn't sweating and flushed and incredibly, enticingly hard against Connor's back, "is that we can both watch while I do this." He slowly slides his hand down to Connor's pubic mound and spreads his fingers wide, searching for the sensitive place he'd found so quickly before.

It doesn't take him long to find it again.

"How's that, honey?" Hank asks, when Connor jerks and gasps in his arms. "Did I find your sweet spot?"

"Y-yes, that's it," Connor says. He arches up into Hank's touch, desperate to chase that bright, crackling sensation set off by the pressure of Hank's thick fingers.

He's never thought of himself as particularly selfish or greedy, but right now the thought at the forefront of Connor's mind is that he wants more. More pressure, more of Hank's body touching his, more sweet words rumbled into his ear; he imagines Hank with a dozen hands, all dedicated to touching and pleasuring Connor, and wonders if even that would be enough.

He feels ravenous. 

"I want you," Connor says. He turns his head as far back as he can and tugs Hank's beard to pull him in for a messy, desperate kiss.

"I'm here," Hank says, when he breaks the kiss to breathe. He kisses Connor's forehead, his cheek, his mouth again. "You have me." He presses his free hand to the center of Connor's chest, over his thirium pump, and holds him tightly to his chest. "Anything you need, honey, just tell me."

"I want everything," Connor moans. "Your hands, everywhere. Your body covering mine. Your mouth..." he trails off at the thought of it. Hank rubs over Connor's ports more roughly and he feels a jolt of pleasure that makes his legs twitch.

"Where do you want my mouth?" Hank asks, very quietly. "Right here?" He flattens his hand to cup Connor's pubic mound and squeezes.

Connor nods and rocks against his touch. "Not—don't move, please," Connor says, because Hank's been so accommodating to what Connor wants, so far, and he does want it, but more than the feel of Hank kissing and gently sucking where his hand is now, he wants to know that Hank wants it as well. That he can ask, and

Hank will say yes. He has no doubt that Hank's desire is as great as his own, but he's starting to understand how badly he wants to be told this directly. "Please keep touching me, but—yes. Yes, I want it." He tilts his head back again and tries to meet Hank's gaze. "Would you?"

"Yeah," Hank says. "Fuck, of course." He nips Connor's earlobe. "Good thing you want everything, 'cause that's what I want to give you." He punctuates his words with kisses down Connor's neck. "Every damn thing you want. Like this."

Hank leans forward a bit and taps his thigh. "You want to pop your legs up here?"

Connor allows himself to be rearranged so his legs are draped over Hank's; when he's settled, they're splayed wide with his pelvis tilted up at a sharper angle than before. He feels surprisingly exposed, but there's no one but Hank to see him, and Connor wants him to look. It's a good feeling, he decides.

"There, that's nice," Hank murmurs. "If I was down there I'd throw your legs over my shoulders and get a good look at you." He rests his fingers gently on Connor's skin and traces light circles over the area where he's most sensitive. Not rubbing or pressing like he had before, but light, delicate touches that make Connor shiver.

"I'd start off real gentle," he says, lips brushing against Connor's ear as he speaks. Every touch is light and leaves him wanting more. "Little kisses, maybe. Get you used to having me here."

Connor imagines Hank's beard brushing his thighs, his mouth covering him with sweet, gentle kisses. It's not enough—not the fantasy Hank's recounting, not the light touch of his hand—but he knows Hank's building to something. He can be patient. "I'd take my time," Hank says, "but you'd want more eventually, I know." He kisses Connor's shoulder almost chastely, a small, closed-mouthed peck, and it sends a ripple of anticipation through him. Connor's so focused on everything Hank's doing, every way he's touching him, that even the most casual touches feel magnified in intensity.

"I'd want more, too," Hank continues. He stops touching Connor, but before he can protest the lack of contact, Hank's fingers nudge against his lips. "You want to help out with the next part?"

Connor isn't sure what the next part is, but in his limited experience, he's already decided there isn't much he wants more than to have Hank's fingers in his mouth; he sucks them in greedily.

"Fuck," Hank groans, when Connor licks along the bottom of his fingers. "You really do like this, don't you?"

Hank's thighs tighten under Connor's, and he feels Hank's erection pulse against his back as Hank rolls his hips against him. Connor whines around Hank's fingers in agreement. His mouth floods again, and Hank rumbles his approval and pushes his fingers in deeper.

"Get them nice and wet for me," he says. "That's just what I want."

Connor misses Hank's fingers the moment he removes them, dripping with his artificial saliva and analysis fluid, but the feel of them against the sensitive seam on his groin, their motion now smooth with the slickness from his mouth, more than makes up for it.

"Hank, that's—" Connor arches up into Hank's touch, seeking more friction. "Keep doing that, please."

"I wouldn't tease you too long, don't worry," Hank says, dropping back into his narrative. "I'd lick you all over down here, see where you're most sensitive. I know this little spot here feels good, but maybe you want me to kiss your thighs, too? Maybe there are more little spots around here that would feel just as good, so. I gotta be thorough."

Connor isn't aware of any, but that doesn't mean they don't exist. He hadn't thought of the area above his genital attachment ports before he touched them by accident, after all. The thought of Hank's mouth pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses, licking over every inch of his groin and his thighs, is an enticing one.

"I want to feel it," Connor says. 

"You're so greedy," Hank replies, lips brushing against Connor's neck. It doesn't feel like an admonishment; it feels like praise. Hank kisses the junction of his neck and shoulder, hot and messy, and it feels the way he imagines it would feel if Hank kissed him where his hand is currently hard at work.

Something about the angle of Connor's hips with his legs thrown over Hank's must make it easier for Hank to rub against his sensitive seam at the particular angle he'd found earlier, because once his hand is slicked up it isn't long before Connor receives the same prompt as before: **BEGIN COMPONENT INSTALLATION AND SYNC Y/N?**

Before he can dismiss it, Hank kisses his shoulder again, this time with a gentle scrape of teeth, & the firm press of his hand sends a new spike of pleasure up his spine and triggers a second new prompt. 

**ALERT: UNLICENSED HARDWARE IS NOT SUPPORTED** flashes insistently above the installation prompt. Connor isn't sure exactly what Hank's done to trigger this alert, but he doesn't care; he just wants it to happen again.

"Right there," he pants, clamping down on Hank's wrist to make sure he doesn't move. "More—more pressure, I think. But please don't stop."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Hank flexes his fingers and starts a rolling, rhythmic pressure; with every firm press of his fingers, Connor feels a jolt of pleasure that bursts deep inside him and radiates outward. His head lolls back against Hank's shoulder as he tries to make sense of the waves of sensation and the increasing frequency and urgency of the warnings overlaying each other in the corner of his awareness.

"What do you need?" Hank asks, in between kisses along his shoulder.

Hank had called him greedy, and Connor supposes he deserves it; more than anything, he thinks, he wants more. He takes Hank's free hand, which had been idly squeezing his hip and thigh, and brings it to his lips.

Connor turns so Hank can see his face in profile. "I need you to fill my mouth," he says, and sucks three fingers inside.

He feels Hank shudder behind him. "The mouth on you," he growls. "Fuck."

There's something deeply satisfying, Connor thinks, about hearing Hank's arousal reflected so plainly in his voice and feeling how it changes his body. His heart is racing behind Connor's spine. He's sweating, although Connor isn't in a position where he can appreciate it visually or orally as much as he'd like, and his erection, still pressing against Connor's back, hasn't flagged at all. He wants to explore Hank's body further, and knowing that Hank wants him to, that he wants it as deeply and fervently as Connor wants Hank's hands to cover every inch of his body, brings a pleasure of its own.

Every sensation—his knowledge of Hank's desire, Hank's mouth hot and wet on his neck and shoulder, his hand pressing and flexing against him hard enough to make Connor's internal systems think he's engaging the connection ports directly, and the thick mass of Hank's fingers pressing against his tongue as he sucks them in as deep as he can—feels like it's building to some unknown conclusion. Connor's panting in earnest now, venting excess heat to avoid overheating entirely, he's inundated with messages and alerts from processes that were not designed to handle sexual activity, and it takes a moment for him to realize that Hank's speaking to him again.

"Can you come like this, do you think?" he's asking.

"I don't—I don't know if I can," Connor says, finally. "But I'm—something's happening."

"So let it happen," Hank says, voice so low it's almost a whisper. "I'm here, I've got you. Let it happen."

And so Connor lets go.

He stops trying to regulate his breathing or his temperature control, stops closing or dismissing the increasingly-insistent alerts flagging themselves as urgent in his field of vision, slips Hank's hand back to his lips, and stops trying to do or focus on anything that isn't Hank, that isn't the moment in front of him, that isn't the well of sensation he's happily drowning in, until sensation is all that remains.

His background processes—calculations of probability that relate to their current caseload at work, an ongoing recording and assessment of Hank's vitals, calculations for SETI, active searches of thirty years' worth of food blogs for new recipes Hank might enjoy, monitoring of several message boards dedicated to photos of dogs in cosplay—stop completely.

The constant white noise of Connor's mind is gone, or at least out of reach; all that remains is Hank. His body heat, his hands pushing into and against him, the harsh sound of his arousal-roughened voice in his ear saying "look at you, baby, holy shit, you're so fucking beautiful."

It's just this most basic level of him, the Connor that wants and wants all of Hank, and Hank's huge hands on his body that's so greedy for him, and—

And then it's just a feeling, just that deep, spreading spark, magnified tenfold—

And then it's nothing at all. 

* * *

Awareness trickles in slowly. It's not like coming out of stasis, the sudden snap into exterior consciousness after retreating inward, but a gradual rebuilding of the senses that were stripped away before.

First: he's aware of Hank. He's still a sturdy, solid presence behind him; Connor is first aware of the warmth from his chest and belly and thighs soaking into his body, then of the nuances in texture: the soft rasp of hair, the pleasant cushion of fat and firm muscle beneath.

Then, finer details: Hank's fingertips grazing over his chest, his sides, trailing down his neck. Hank's...petting him, he thinks. Being gentle with him. He hears the sweet murmur of Hank's voice in his ear as if he's listening from underwater; the tone is clear, but the sound is muffled, indistinct.

Connor feels the re-initialization of his slowed and shut-down processes as a gradual surfacing into full awareness; as comforting as the narrow focus on Hank's touch is, he lets himself rise with it, and a few seconds later he surfaces into a sudden rush of soup recipes and dog photos and the comforting scan of Hank's heartrate (steady, slightly elevated).

Hank's still talking to him.

"—you're asleep," he's saying, "or something, but I hope you feel nice in there. If I fucked you to sleep that's good, right?"

"You didn't fuck me to sleep, exactly," Connor says, "and 'good' is an understatement, but yes."

"Hey, honey," Hank says. He nuzzles Connor's neck, just behind his ear, and wraps his arms tightly around his chest. "Welcome back. That seemed, uh, pretty intense."

"Yes," Connor says again. He's still adjusting to the standard level of sensory input after that period of blankness that began and ended with Hank as the entirety of his focus; a further response hasn't presented itself.

"But it was all right?" There's a hint of worry in Hank's voice. Mostly affection, warmth, a thread of continued arousal, all of which Connor's happy to hear. But there's something hesitant, as well.

Connor thinks, for a moment, that it should be obvious—especially since he just said so—that whatever he'd just experienced had been intensely pleasurable, but before he can feel frustrated with Hank, or worried that he wasn't paying attention, somehow, he considers that despite Hank's previous sexual experience, this is new territory for them both. It makes sense that Hank would want to be very sure Connor'd had a good experience, especially considering how attentive he'd been.

Connor allows himself, for just a moment, to relish the memory of how incredible Hank's hands had felt, pressing into that sensitive seam between his legs. Filling his mouth with his thick, rough fingers. He sighs, a soft, breathy sound that's halfway to a moan, and Hank chuckles.

"Oh, is that my answer?"

"It may as well be," Connor says. He leans his head back against Hank's shoulder, relaxing into his embrace. "It was evident from my reactions, I hope, that this was a pleasurable first sexual experience for me. I'm not entirely sure what happened when I 'fell asleep,' as you called it; the process wasn't the same as when I enter and leave stasis. It felt different."

"What did it feel like?" Hank asks.

"Everything else fell away," Connor says. "It was just you. Your warmth behind me, your hands on me. In me. All I experienced was your body, and mine, and our shared desire."

Hank kisses his shoulder and tightens his hold around Connor's chest. "Just me, huh. Just us."

"Only that," Connor says. He doesn't know if Hank can fully understand the importance of such tight focus, when his mind isn't constantly working on a dozen things at once the same way Connor's is, but he wants him to know that it was special, at least. Completely unexpected. "It was overwhelming, to have my attention focused so narrowly on you and what you were doing. All I could think about was how good it felt when you touched me."

"I could touch you some more," Hank murmurs, sliding one palm down Connor's chest and settling it on one thigh. "Or are you too sensitive after all that?"

It's tempting. Connor can easily picture the possibilities, even without using his preconstruction software; he's sure Hank would be happy to work him over with his hands again, or even use his mouth the way he'd described earlier. He still feels greedy; he suspects that as far as Hank is concerned, it's a permanent state of being. Of course he wants more.

But.

He thinks about Hank smearing his pre-ejaculate on his thumb and pressing it to Connor's lips. "You can suck me as long as you want," Hank had said. As long as Connor wants might be longer than Hank can handle him, but, he thinks, as he twists around to straddle Hank's lap and face him, the only way to know is through direct experience. 

"Not too sensitive," Connor says, "but I'd rather focus on you, for the moment. On what you said I could do, once you'd taken care of me." He brushes his hand over Hank's nipple. "Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember," Hank groans. "Christ." He cups Connor's face in one broad palm and traces the seam of his lips with his thumb. "Not like I could forget." He stifles another groan when Connor licks his thumb.

Connor can't bear to get off of Hank's lap without kissing him first, so he leans in and does so, winding his arms around Hank's neck. Hank grabs Connor's hips and holds him close as he licks into Connor's mouth. Pleasure crackles across his oral sensors as they rush to process new data.

"I—I don't want to stop kissing you," Connor says, when Hank leaves his mouth for a moment to kiss along his jaw to his ear. "But I want your penis in my mouth, as well."

"You can just say 'cock,' you know, or 'dick' or something," Hank huffs into his ear. "You'll sound less like an anatomy textbook."

Connor isn't sure why it should matter if he uses proper anatomical terminology or not, but Hank certainly seems to have a preference for slang. "Do you just want to hear me say it?" he asks, already sure of the answer. "That I want your cock in my mouth?"

Hank's grip on his hips tightens and he nips Connor's earlobe roughly. "Fuck."

"I see," Connor says, filing this information away for later.

"Don't let me stop you," Hank rasps out. He rocks his hips and rubs his erection against Connor's thigh. "I mean, don't—don't let me rush you either," he says, "but—"

"It's all right," Connor says. "The only thing keeping me from rushing is trying to choose one thing to pursue when there's so much that I want."

"If you need an invitation," Hank says, "I can give you one." He reaches between them and gives his—his cock, Connor thinks, recalibrating his vocabulary to align with what Hank clearly finds more arousing—gives his cock a few slow strokes. "You want to come get another taste, honey?"

What could Connor possibly want more?

He gives Hank one more kiss, messy and desperate, then slides off his lap and settles on the bed between his legs. Hank's still stroking himself, a beautiful sight on its own: his thighs shift and tense rhythmically, his forearm flexes as his hand moves, and Connor can see Hank's tongue pressing into the gap between his front teeth as his breathing grows more ragged.

Connor had become intimately aware of the size and shape of Hank's cock the night before, when he'd scanned it in detail, but there is a distinct difference, he realizes, between studying the three-dimensional model created as a result of those scans in the privacy of his own mind and seeing the penis in question hard and flushed with arousal only inches from his face. 

Here, at least, Connor feels capable of deciding what to do next with a minimum amount of thought. He braces a hand on Hank's thigh and nudges Hank's hand away from his cock with his other. "Oh, Hank," he murmurs, as he wraps his hand loosely around Hank's erection. It's hard and thick, almost heavy in his hand, and his long fingers only barely encircle it.

"You feel incredible," he says. He squeezes gently and is rewarded with a low moan and Hank's hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Have mercy on me," Hank groans, "and don't tease me too much."

Something twists in Connor's chest at Hank's words; he has a perverse desire to do just that. "I'll only tease you a little, then," he says, giving Hank a slow stroke that mimics the motion he saw him perform a moment before. "I'm too impatient for more, this time."

He allows himself, though, a brief moment to imagine Hank red-faced and panting, cursing at Connor as he prolongs the moment of climax again and again. It's an idea for another day, perhaps once he has more experience with Hank's sexual response and endurance.

And when he isn't so focused on the basic, overwhelming desire to fill his mouth with Hank's cock.

There's no reason to hold himself back any more; he leans in and gives the head of his cock a messy lick before sucking it into his mouth. He doesn't force himself to take more, not yet; he wants to savor it. 

Connor had, in his earlier preconstructions, come up with a rough estimate of what it might feel like to take Hank into his mouth, but this was only a surface-level understanding, a calculation of the mechanics of one thing fitting into another mapped over his knowledge of skin contact and body heat and human erogenous zones.

Having Hank's cock in his mouth is nothing like the sterile image his software had produced, earlier. The taste that blooms across his tongue is at once familiar and delightfully novel; he recognizes the chemical makeup of Hank's pre-ejaculate, which he'd tasted earlier, but it's stronger, now, and mixed with sweat and other compounds found on Hank's skin. It's intoxicating.

Connor sighs, a soft exhalation of pleasure as he curls his tongue against the glans and licks, coaxing out another drop of pre-ejaculate and another burst of data crackling through his awareness.

"Oh, Christ," Hank moans above him. "Your fucking mouth, Connor, it's—"

He breaks off into a deep, incoherent groan when Connor squeezes his cock while sliding a few more inches into his mouth, stopping when his lips meet the fingers he has wrapped around the base. He sucks gently, unsure if the full level of suction he can achieve (more than the average human, he's pretty sure, which adds to his caution) would be at all comfortable, and is rewarded with Hank's hand tangling in his hair and another low moan.

"Fuck," Hank pants. "That—that's good, you're so good."

Connor thinks of the slow pace Hank set when he stroked himself and tries to match it, pressing his tongue against the underside of Hank's cock to tease him with soft, wet pressure as he pulls his mouth nearly all the way off before sliding back down again.

He'd been right, Connor thinks, when he knew Hank's fingers couldn't match up to this. Every time he sinks down, he takes a little more of Hank's cock into his mouth, and every time he marvels at how full he feels. He wants to tell Hank this, tell him how incredible it feels to have his mouth filled this way, how pleased he is that Hank is willing to be so vulnerable with him. There are dozens of things, Connor realizes, he wants to tell him.

Hank takes compliments and praise poorly, much of the time, but perhaps he'd be more inclined to appreciate a compliment about how good his cock feels in his mouth. About how much Connor loves feeling Hank's nails scratch against his scalp as he moans and tightens his grip in Connor's hair: not with enough force to hold him in place, but enough to be a tether, another firm point of connection between them.

He decides to wait until his mouth is unoccupied to tell Hank any of this; he can't think of anything that's so important to say he'd want to interrupt his current mission.

Connor does his best, for a minute, to let himself drift in the pure sensation of it. He can't disable all of his background processes manually, but he can diminish the amount of attention he spends on them; the majority of his sensory input and his brainpower turns, as he thinks maybe he has always wanted to, to Hank. To his body beneath him, inside him, and his low moans and rumbled sounds of pleasure.

He can feel Hank's pulse, if he presses the flat of his tongue to the underside of his cock, and he whines at the thought of it, of knowing Hank so intimately by touching him this way. Thinks about checking his pulse daily, waking him to a leisurely examination of his cardiovascular health.

Maybe he'll suggest it, later.

When Connor grips the base of Hank's cock again, taking him more shallowly into his mouth as he strokes him in rhythm with the movement of his lips, Hank cries out and ruts his hips up, an involuntary motion that Connor's thrilled to have inspired. "Fuck, yeah," Hank moans, and while he doesn't thrust up as vigorously after that, his hips roll in time with Connor's hand, and Connor feels the tension in his thighs as they squeeze against his sides.

"That's—right there, that's good," Hank manages to say. "Connor, honey, if you don't want—" he breaks off into a deep groan when one of Connor's teeth barely grazes his skin. "Fuck, if you don't want me to come in your mouth, you gotta—"

The thought of Hank ejaculating anywhere other than his mouth is unacceptable, at this point; he shakes his head as much as he's able, a small motion from side to side, and speeds up the motion of his hand and mouth.

"Please," he says, even though he knows all Hank can hear is a muffled moan.

He feels Hank's pulse jump beneath his tongue, then his entire body stiffens and he groans almost as if he's in pain, a deep, wild exhalation accompanied by a handful of slow, deep thrusts into Connor's mouth and the hot release of his ejaculate across Connor's tongue.

Connor swallows greedily, so overwhelmed by the experience as a whole that he can barely make sense of the information his oral sensors are feeding him. He saves the data to a protected subfolder to examine at his leisure, later, and allows himself a soft, lazy moment to continue mouthing gently at Hank's cock until Hank hisses and tugs gently on Connor's hair.

"'s too much, now," he says. "C'mere, hon, you did good."

Hank's cheeks are flushed and sweaty, and his hair is wild; Connor doesn't think he's ever looked more attractive. 

He'd been so unsure of what it meant when he couldn't stop looking at Hank, and thinking about touching him, and while he understands why it took time to process his feelings, they're almost comically apparent now. In the end, its simple: he can't stop thinking about Hank, or wanting to be close to Hank, because he loves him.

Of course it's because he loves him.

"How was that, for you?" Hank asks, as Connor settles into his arms. He smooths a lock of hair off Connor's forehead and trails his fingers over the shell of his ear and the line of his jaw. Connor leans into his touch, and Hank repeats the motion, fingertips running from hairline to ear to chin, as he speaks. "As a first time, I mean."

"I would hope it was obvious," Connor says, "that I enjoyed myself thoroughly." He nearly asks "Do you need to ask?" before he realizes that he wants to ask, too. Even though Hank had just told him he'd done a good job. Even though he could still pick up traces of his semen in his oral sensors as a sign of his pleasure.

"If you need me to be clearer, though," he says, turning to kiss Hank's fingertip as it brushes by along the side of his face, "I'm happy to tell you. I'm still a little overwhelmed, I think, by the experience; everything was more intense than I'd expected." 

He hums thoughtfully, tracing the lines of Hank's tattoo as he'd wanted to do before he woke up. "A 'first time' implies a second, though, don't you think? I'm eager for that, if I'm being honest. I want to know more about what you enjoy. I want to touch you more." He looks at Hank's flushed face, his parted lips, and imagines them cradled between his thighs. "I want to feel your mouth on me, where you touched me before." He feels his thoughts spiraling out into an infinity of want, again, and tries to reel them back in.

"Easy there, tiger," Hank says with a chuckle. "Maybe not right this second, but, yeah, of course. A second time and as many times as you want." He taps Connor's LED gently. "You've got a lot in there that you've been thinking about, don't you? I want to hear about it, whenever you want to tell me."

"I love you," Connor says, because it's so obvious to him now that it seems pointless to try and hide it. Hank's hand stills against his forehead and he worries, for a moment, that he's made a mistake. He cranes his neck to try and meet his eyes. "Hank? Is that all right?"

"Oh my god," Hank says, and he rolls over and cups Connor's face and kisses him again and again, on his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth. "I'm such a fucking—I should have told you," he murmurs, and for some reason he's laughing. "This whole time. This whole fucking time, baby, I should have said something sooner."

"I didn't know," Connor protests. "Even if you had said something before, I'm not sure what my response would have been. I didn't understand what I was feeling."

"And now you do," Hank says. Connor isn't sure if it's a question or not, but he nods anyway.

"It's obvious, now," he says. "How could I not love you?"

There's something in Hank's expression that tells Connor—and his own knowledge of Hank tells him this as well—that he could easily name several reasons Connor couldn't or shouldn't love him. He sees it in the furrow of his brow, in the shift of his eye, in the way he inhales as if to protest, just for a moment.

But it passes, as quickly as it comes, and instead he laughs again, and kisses Connor again, and pretends when he touches his thumb to the corner of his eye that he's wiping a speck of dust away.

Because of course, he tells Connor, teary-eyed and laughing, of course he loves him too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is another twitter thread that got way out of hand, as my threads often do (the original plan was to do a super short scene about Connor scanning Hank's dick and fantasizing about it, and I thought I would write it over one weekend, and then it became...this). If you want to say hi to me there you can find me [@robofingering](http://twitter.com/robofingering).


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